


Moments in Time

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 53,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Missing scenes and episode tags as for various scenes as I go through a TOS rewatch, in no particular order. Gen. Open to requests, but no promises due to RL responsibilities.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock, James T. Kirk & Spock
Comments: 51
Kudos: 67





	1. Arena

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My regular readers know I write canon pairings, meaning in TOS I only write Kirk, Spock and McCoy as Gen pairings because that's what I see on-screen, and because I am of the opinion that love doesn't necessarily, or have to, equal sex. If you want to read as more than that, there's plenty of room in the IDIC sandbox for everyone and I hope you can enjoy regardless.
> 
> Also, I'm moving this series over from FF.net because it needs the least brush-up of my old TOS fics, but it technically is still ongoing and I’d love some new TOS inspiration, so feel free to drop a prompt in the comments if you’re so inclined!

**Series Title** : Moments in Time  
 **Episode** : _Arena  
_ **Episode Summary (so you don’t have to look it up):** You know, the one with the Gorn  
 **Series Warnings/Spoilers:** Spoilers for whatever episode is in question. Warning for too many overarching chess metaphors, and as much fluff as the typical TOS episode was full of.  
  
 **Series Summary** : Missing scenes and episode tags as for various scenes as I go through a TOS rewatch, in no particular order. Open to requests, but no promises due to RL responsibilities.

* * *

It has been a very long day.

The sentence's sheer illogical nature, and the fact that the expression even crosses his mind as such, are clear indications that the tension of the day's events have crossed a mental boundary, and he is in need of what the humans call 'unwinding,' or in his own culture, meditation and/or a time apart from ship's business. A decided inconvenience, this half-human component of his physiology; and yet, to deny what exists in the form of his mind's demands is hardly logical.

It is for that reason that he accepts the captain's request for a chess match this evening. Their discourse has been slightly strained since the closure of their encounter with the Metrons; not exactly awkward, but somewhere beyond the cold silence that tends to fall when they have had a serious disagreement. Captain Kirk is a brilliant commander, of that there is no doubt; but he is stubborn, impulsive and prone to bear a grudge on occasion – the former, traits which can be simultaneously brilliant strengths and desperate weaknesses, and the latter, exacerbated by the first two.

Spock may not be impulsive, but he is equally stubborn. They make a command team to be feared across the galaxy, but the casualty of such a symbiotic relationship is the occasional instance when they disagree over a command decision. Spock's clear deference has never been in question; but it is that very knowledge, the knowledge that in the end, he will follow James Tiberius Kirk off a cliff if the man asks him to – it is that knowledge that sometimes sets the captain off in irritation at the very loyalty upon which Kirk so relies.

It is a most illogical state of human emotion, one which he has learned the hard way to deal with; namely, with extreme caution.

Jim's eyes had apologized for his reactions on the Bridge, quiet though his reprimand had been; Spock had just as silently acknowledged both the apology and the somewhat-deserved reprimand itself. And yet, there still exists that slight tension which is probably obvious to no one but them, which indicates that they have, however awkwardly, crossed yet another hurdle in this strange embarkation of interspecies cooperation.

Kirk had informed him when he accepted the position of First Officer that he wished Spock to be comfortable telling the captain when he disagreed with his command decisions, if the consequences of those decisions might be disastrous for the crew. Spock had, in this instance, done so; and in doing so, had created this void between them. He had been in the right, and they both knew and know it; however, that knowledge does not mend a fissured relationship, and so he accepts Jim's olive branch of a chess game in the spirit in which he knows it is meant.

Now, he pauses in the doorway of his cabin, and regards the scene before him, feeling all remaining irritation with this most illogical of humans melt away in an inexplicable feeling of warmth somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

Months ago he had finally caved under the pressure of Kirkian charm (and the fact that he was growing weary of his commanding officer standing outside his door hollering cheerfully at him over whether or not he was coming to breakfast) and simply told the captain to enter his cabin at will. If he required privacy, he would engage the command override, and the door would not open at Kirk's approach. This has worked well for all concerned, especially the much-amused and overly patient gamma shift crewmen on either sides of their respective cabins.

Apparently, Jim has taken advantage of this permission this evening, because he sees that the captain's much-loved wooden chess board is carefully in place on the table, pieces arranged on the Tri-D tiers so that he begins as white (Kirk insists Spock play white, because if human ingenuity wins against Vulcan logic Kirk wants to say he did so without advantage). Two cups of Vulcan spice tea stand at the side of the table, one half-empty and the other just beginning to stop steaming. The aromatic fragrance of the spices fills the room, soothing and welcoming as the intent is behind the therapeutic drink.

And apparently, the scents are relaxing enough to put a man to sleep, because Jim's limp head is pillowed upon his arms resting on the table. Soft, steady breathing indicates he has been asleep for some minutes, obviously exhausted from the events of the day and fully at ease in his surroundings.

Spock feels strangely gratified at this; no one else, he is aware, has ever even wished to remain in his cabin for longer than is strictly professionally necessary. But Jim Kirk, from the moment he tripped and fell flat on his face in front of his CSO the first time, exclaiming in surprise over the increased gravity and dry heat in the room, has somehow maneuvered himself so neatly into Spock's private life that Spock really has no idea how he surrendered a battle he never knew he'd begun.

The sound of his placing a stack of data-padds on the desk in his work area rouses the drowsy human. Kirk lifts his head with a yawn, blinking owlishly in the warm light, and then suddenly realizes where he is and what he was doing, blushes slightly in what must be human embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mumbles, hastily drowning the words in a lukewarm mug of tea.

"Apologies are illogical, Captain. Are you certain you are in condition to test your wits against mine tonight?"

"I could be drugged on Bones's best meds and still beat the pants off you any day, Mister."

"I would prefer not to test that scenario literally, sir. The crew does talk enough as it stands."

Kirk's grin nearly blinds him, so brightly does it flash his direction. "So you're not still mad at me, then."

"I am not, as you humans term the emotion, 'mad,' in either its colloquial or original linguistic sense, Captain."

"Well, you're a better man than I, Mr. Spock." All amusement is gone from the tone, like sunshine vanishing under a storm cloud. It is a most disquieting phenomenon. "As events today proved so obviously to everyone concerned."

Spock leans against the desk behind him, knowing his relaxed posture is a language all its own to this perceptive human. "Sir, I believe you humans have a saying: what is done, is done. The equivalent Vulcan proverb is _Kaiidth_ ; what is, is. To spend time wishing things were not so, is illogical."

The corners of Kirk's mouth twitch slightly, though the lines of tension around his eyes have slightly eased. "In other words, I need to just forget what an idiot I was today?"

Spock seats himself opposite the human in a fluid gesture, and nudges a pawn out into a very general opening gambit. "I believe the human expression is, 'you said it, not I.'"

The snort of laughter he receives is well worth the tension of the last few hours, and they spend a very enjoyable two more endeavoring to best each other in a game of wits and mental ingenuity. Kirk is somewhat restless as they play, however, and before long it distracts him from his fight to best the incorrigible human's utterly illogical playing style.

"Are you in pain, sir?" he asks at one point, when Kirk shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The faint color that rises in the human's face indicates the truth, and he frowns slightly. "Did you not see Dr. McCoy following our removal from the Metrons' star system?"

"I did, Spock, I promise. The Metrons returned me to the ship and cleaned me up, you saw that; they just didn't really patch up the injuries I got during my face-off with the Gorn." The human rubs his side with a rueful grimace. "Bones said I had a fractured ankle and pretty nasty bruising, almost all the way to the bone, down my hip and leg. Patched the ankle up right away with the bone-knitter, though, so I'm fine. Not even twenty minutes in Sickbay; that has to be a record."

Spock moves a knight to the second tier of the board, and raises an eyebrow at his opponent. "You did not see fit to have the doctor heal your more minor injuries?"

Jim grins at him, a gesture full of equal parts amusement and embarrassment. "When I was eight, Mr. Spock," he says, and Spock does not react to the abrupt change in subject, "Sam was thirteen. He talked me into helping him build a homemade phaser in the barn, and we blew a hole straight through the hayloft and roof."

Spock's eyebrows climb even higher, because this sadly does not surprise him in the least, and when did he become so tolerant of a human's idiocy?

"A couple of support beams came loose and swung down, broke Sam's left arm and banged me up pretty bad as well." The captain grins even wider, and shakes his head ruefully, moving a bishop into position three squares away. "Mom had a dermal regenerator in her home first-aid kit, but she wouldn't heal the nasty scrapes I got to the side of my head. Said I needed to learn a lesson, and maybe yowling with pain every time I had to wash my face might make me think a little harder when I wanted to do something stupid like that again."

Ah. Spock sees the correlation now between the Past and the Present self-inflicted reminder, and wonders anew at how very different their childhoods had been, worlds apart. That two so different beings should come together out of all combinations in time and space…he does not believe in Fate, but the evidence to support such a belief is more compelling as time passes. At the least, he counts himself fortunate to have met such a human who so embodies the concept of IDIC, despite occasional lapses like the human had today regarding the Gorn species. That is the danger of being ruled, partly or completely, by emotion; and it is his contrast to that volatile part of Jim Kirk's personality which makes them such a force to be reckoned with by their enemies.

That also is why he has to work so hard to beat this most frustrating human in a game which should by all rights be his without undue effort. There is no logic behind Jim's chess strategy (if he indeed has one, which Spock doubts), and yet he finds himself unable to fully counter the tactics.

It is, in a word, fascinating.

In the end, Jim loses, but that is mostly because he begins yawning again halfway through the last hour and very obviously starts making mistakes due to weariness and lingering discomfort. Spock's victory is in name only, as he has not been forced to make an effort to bring the game to a close; he has done so with ruthless efficiency only because Kirk's exhaustion and concurrent lapse of attention are seeping through his stubbornly proud expression.

The human is still berating himself for his conduct of earlier, unbefitting a Starfleet officer and unworthy of one who is such a staunch supporter of Spock personally, alien or half-alien or otherwise. Jim is _better_ than he behaved today, and Spock can see he is thoroughly ashamed of his actions, and evidently unable to move past them without some sort of absolution.

"I think I deserved that," the captain observes softly, as his king topples from the top tier of the board.

Spock's hands are under the piece before it strikes the desk, and in one gentle movement he replaces the black king in its original starting position.


	2. The Trouble With Tribbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My regular readers know I write canon pairings, meaning in TOS I only write Kirk, Spock and McCoy as Gen pairings because that's what I see on-screen, and because I am of the opinion that love doesn't necessarily, or have to, equal sex. If you want to read as more than that, there's plenty of room in the IDIC sandbox for everyone and I hope you can enjoy regardless.
> 
> Also, I'm moving this series over from FF.net because it needs the least brush-up of my old TOS fics, but it technically is still ongoing and I’d love some new TOS inspiration, so feel free to drop a prompt in the comments if you’re so inclined!

"I believe, _gentlemen_ ," and the word is fairly dripping with sarcasm, "that my orders were to get every. Last. One. Of these…creatures, off my ship."

Captain James Tiberius Kirk, in full ranting mode, spins on his heel in front of his seated subordinates, hands fisted on his hips. Eyes flashing, he stares down his First Officer, who naturally shows no outward reaction. "Imagine my feelings, then, when after breaking orbit from Starbase K-7 I discover that two of my commanding officers have blatantly disregarded that order."

Scotty looks slightly suicidal, but begins to raise his hand, three fingers in the air. A sharp elbow from McCoy stops him, aborts the action before the captain can see.

" _Three_ of my commanding officers," Kirk amends sharply, and McCoy gives up, because the captain has almost Vulcan-like senses after a couple years in Spock's company. "Gentlemen, I do believe my orders were quite clear. What have you to say for yourselves?"

"Well, first of all, Captain, the poor thing's been kept on a strict diet and it hasn't reproduced in the week it's been aboard," McCoy begins, in that placating tone that he occasionally adopts in an effort to keep stubborn patients in Sickbay without physically sedating them.

"I fail to see how that is grounds for clear insubordination, Doctor McCoy," is the cold retort, and he winces, knowing from the tone that it is The Captain speaking and Jim is nowhere to be found right now.

"We found it only after we'd left orbit, sir," Scotty, bless his heart, attempts to reason with their irate commander, with little effect. "We couldnae just put it down like a – like a puir rabid dog or something, sir!"

"So instead of informing me of its discovery, you instead decided to take it upon yourselves – all three of you – to keep it as a _pet_ without my knowledge?" Scott winces at the tone, and shakes his head silently; it's wiser to just shut up in these situations and let the captain's rant run its course.

"Jim, don't you think you're overreacting just a little bit?" McCoy ventures calmly.

Kirk whirls his direction, eyes flashing. "Doctor, within twenty-four hours just one tribble had crippled this constitution-class starship to the point of threatening our food supply and every vital system aboard. Had we been in deep space instead of orbiting a space station, every person on this ship would have been in serious danger of starvation, because the scale of our engine room invasion would eventually have triggered an emergency warp core ejection and left us drifting, without the ability to call for help due to the degradation of the communications systems! Does that sound like an overreaction to you, Lieutenant-Commander?"

Oh, geez, he's pulling out the ranking titles now; sure indications that a tantrum of epic proportions is probably on its way. McCoy sighs and mentally hunkers down to wait it out.

"The captain is quite correct, gentlemen. Should the animal escape its confines, however unlikely that possibility may be, it could in theory pose a serious danger to the workings of this ship." Spock's trying to get himself firmly back on Jim's side, and McCoy hates him for it, because he's so danged good at it it's really almost sickening.

But not this time, apparently; Jim is worked up good and angry, and even Spock's admitting to being in the wrong isn't having much effect. McCoy can't help but feel a little bit meanly glad that the hobgoblin isn't getting off scot-free this time; Lord knows the pointy-eared menace has already mutinied and stolen the ship itself and got no more than a slap on the wrist for it. Bad for morale, this knowing Spock can get away with murder because he's the captain's favorite and nobody does puppy-eyes like a Vulcan, however weirdly adorable that might be.

"And if your logic recognizes this fact, Commander, then why did you not inform me of the existence of this potential danger to my ship?" The words are sparks, crackling with energy as they are fired rapidly at their First Officer, who has just unwisely drawn the attention to himself. "You are aware, that such a lack of action constitutes professional negligence and is grounds for Starfleet reprimand?"

Spock only blinks placidly back at his angry captain, eyes wide and dark and oh-so-innocent. "I am aware, sir."

"Now look, captain, Mr. Spock wasnae even the one who found the puir thing, an' he did say we should tell ye it was hidin' in the intermix chamber –"

"Scotty, just shut up," McCoy mutters under his breath, because the loyal engineer's just going to pour petrol on that fire.

The stupid little animals are a sore spot with Jim now, because they embarrassed him more than once both aboard ship and on the space station, and if the captain has one fault it's his ridiculous _pride_ in his captain-image. McCoy will never forget the sight of Kirk woefully buried up to the neck in tribbles, and he knows that however expressionless Spock might have been at the time, if anyone can pick up on the invisible indicators of Vulcan amusement it’s Jim. And it had taken them over an hour to dig the poor man out, after all.

But the whole incident, plus the very real danger to the ship, have blown the menace of the furry pests way out of proportion now, and they really should have known better. Despite the impossibility of the creature's reproduction if it's not allowed unlimited access to complex carbohydrates, the potential for disaster is still there, and they should have told the captain of the tribble's existence.

And, however much he and Scotty might privately poke fun at Spock and his stuck-up Vulcanity, neither of them's going to throw the poor First Officer under the shuttlecraft and point out that neither of _them_ is really that enamored with the purring little furball.

While he's been trying to keep Scotty from making the whole thing worse than it really is because nobody can get through to Captain-Kirk-on-a-rampage except Spock, Jim has turned his full attention on his First Officer. Spock, standing now to properly counter the captain's chastisement, weathers the explosion with true Vulcan patience, only nodding when appropriate and interjecting some random calm logical comment when he can.

Finally Kirk winds down, ending up toe-to-toe with his First, arms folded over his chest and scowling up at the taller man.

"In other words – you kept it because you _like_ it, Mr. Spock," he states flatly.

Spock somehow manages to look highly affronted using only his eyebrows.

"To destroy a life form simply because of the _potential_ danger it _might_ possibly cause unsupervised is nothing less than a moral crime, Captain. You know this as well as I."

"And you also know he's a sucker for fuzzy animals, Captain," McCoy drawls, happy at this point to just sit back and watch the fireworks, since the attention has been diverted from him and their unfortunate Chief Engineer, who got reluctantly roped into the whole thing through some artful blackmail on McCoy's part.

If looks could kill, Spock would have incinerated him on the spot; as it stands, however, he only grins angelically up at his two commanding officers, both now equally ticked-off at him.

After a brief staring match, Kirk turns back to his First Officer, and his voice softens just slightly. "You really want one, don't you."

Spock of course says nothing to incriminate himself either way, merely reiterating that same load of baloney about moral crimes and innocent animal life forms, etc., etc.

"Did I just hear you say it's ‘illogical to harm a sentient life form which is aesthetically and auditorally pleasing’?" Kirk finally interrupts, eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline.

Spock's ear-tips suddenly turn an odd shade of jade.

The captain's lips twitch suspiciously, and he finally holds up a placating hand as Spock launches into yet another long-winded explanation of their actions. "You know what, fine," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. "But I swear, Spock, if I find so much as a hair of that… _thing_ , on my Bridge, or anywhere else in my ship, I will have it out the nearest airlock without any deliberation. Is that _clear_ , gentlemen?"

He receives three identically silent nods, and finally sweeps from the room in dramatic disgust, muttering under his breath about insubordination in the command chain, inter-planetary trade categorizations of dangerous creatures, etc., etc.

Thankful silence falls.

"Ah believe ye owe me five credits, Doctor," Scotty burrs cheerfully in his ear. "Told y'so."

"And I believe both of you owe me three hours of detailed inspection duty for my… _efforts,_ in this incident, gentlemen. My departmental staff will be contacting you shortly to schedule these inspection tours."

McCoy groans, head in his hands. He's sold his soul to a Vulcan, God help him.


	3. Metamorphosis

It isn't often that the three of them find themselves with spare time off together. Command runs on a totally separate track from Sciences, though Spock does spend a good portion of alpha shift on the Bridge due to his dual status as First Officer; and nobody knows better than McCoy how Medical runs its own hours at _all_ hours, and those never coincide with _anybody's_ schedule unless there's a rare run of health aboard ship.

So for all three of them to have down time at the same time is a rare occurrence indeed, and McCoy is actually looking forward to having a twelve-hour shuttlecraft ride just to catch up with Jim on the events of the last few busy weeks. And maybe just have a good gab-fest while they're discussing ship's business, since that hasn't happened much lately. He hasn't so much as had time to eat breakfast with the captain in over a week, and in fact only even saw the man the morning Kirk showed up in Sickbay right before a conference call with the Admiralty, demanding a headache pill with all the irritability that indicated he'd discovered McCoy locked out his meal card from complex carbohydrates the night before.

So, the fact that Spock is coming along at the Federation's clear and unarguable "request" on this little venture to pick up Commissioner Hedford, is just butter on the biscuit. He and Spock haven't had a good snipe-fest in a couple of weeks at least, and Jim has been busy with an enormous amount of paperwork from their last few missions, as well as trying to fight the powers-that-be to get his people at least a brief shore leave when they stop for refueling on Gamma Hydra XII's supply station. McCoy well knows both his superiors are exhausted after a grueling month, neither of them having taken their scheduled day off per week for various reasons, and he hopes to coax both of them into relaxing just a bit before they reach their destination and the work of ferrying a high-maintenance diplomat on medical emergency throws them back into the thick of things.

Even Spock's annoying insistence as they pack, that they spend the majority of their unexpected time together doing crew evaluations since they will be more efficient with Command, Science, and Medical all in collaboration from the beginning, can't dampen his eagerness for the trip, and he stows his gear aboard with all the enthusiasm of an Academy cadet going for his first deep-space flight.

Jim only glares half-heartedly at his chatter, as he and Spock begin the pre-flight checklists, and McCoy just pretends not to hear the captain's mumbling under his breath about too-chipper backseat drivers. Scotty bids them a cheerful farewell over the comm channel, before the _Enterprise_ shoots away into hyperspace with a tiny ripple of backlash as their warp bubble forms, intent upon finishing the ship's charting of the Beta Canaris system's localized ion storm, before returning to rendezvous with the _Galileo II_ in two days' time.

Sixty minutes or so later, they are sailing through space with the unexpected but welcome aid of a gentle solar wind from a nearby system. Kirk has finished up navigation computations, had Spock double-check the calculations, and fed them into the shuttle's auto-pilot. Spock is busy checking systems and tweaking them here and there, which for some reason amuses McCoy to no end; because how often does the walking database get the chance to tinker with his precious machines, and it's always hilarious to see him not-quite-frowning at some display which does not meet his exacting standards.

McCoy stretches, gets up to make a few cups of coffee at the portable replication unit in the back. Figuring out the contraption (obviously Spock isn't the only one who likes to tinker, and he's going to smack Scotty when he sees him next for changing the buttons all around on him) takes him a good twenty minutes or so, and when he returns with his hard-earned plunder it is to see Spock leaning back in his chair, chin resting on one thin hand, just silently watching his co-pilot.

This is nothing new, and McCoy rolls his eyes. It's ridiculous how everyone thinks Spock never shows emotion; 'cause if that's not affection and amusement in the hobgoblin's expression then McCoy'll drink his coffee decaf for the rest of the trip. Spock's almost relaxed-looking, which is scarily weird, and the corners of his eyes are all but _smiling_ , which is even weirder.

He plunks a steaming coffee cup down in front of Spock, and then settles easily into the seat directly behind the Vulcan, grinning widely over the rim of the cup.

Because Jim is snoring fit to wake the dead, head tipped forward on his chest and hands neatly folded in his lap, slouched into the most uncomfortable of positions behind the navigation console and apparently not caring one bit.

Spock unfolds his arms to re-check the instruments once more, and then swivels in one fluid motion to face the doctor, picking up his coffee cup on the way.

"If you suggest wakin' him up to do your crew evals, I will slip a shot of mocha syrup in there next time," McCoy hisses ferociously, stabbing a finger in the Vulcan's direction.

A dark eyebrow rises slowly over the rim of the coffee cup, as Spock looks dubiously down into the drink's steaming depths.

McCoy settles back with a smirk, raising his own cup in a mocking toast to his companion's wariness of human nature.

Yes indeedy, it's going to be a very interesting, dare he say _fascinating,_ twelve hours.


	4. The Doomsday Machine

When stranded in deep space without warp capabilities, there is little for members of the command chain to do besides wait out repairs, and plan for the worst-case scenarios such as a shortage of food and water (a rare occurrence on any starship equipped with matter replication devices). Engineering works overtime during such instances of power loss, while Sciences and Operations take up the slack during the times immediately following such long terms of repair work. The procedure is beneficial for all areas of the ship, but the command staff usually bear the brunt of the arrangement.

Such incidents mean triple the amount of paperwork which normally ensues after a successful mission, and given the official implications of this last, Spock is kept quite busy directing, re-directing, and mis-directing reports and forms from hitting the captain's inbox. Spock may not fully understand the human process of grieving, but he does know it requires time, and solitude, for this particular human which he dares in his innermost thoughts call _friend_.

However, when the captain disappears late in ship's night, and does not report to his cabin communicator when Spock finally finishes the previous day's reports around 0530 hours, he decides a minor breach of privacy is in order. He soon discovers that according to Kirk's cabin's bio-monitor, the captain has not been in his cabin since the previous morning. This is not necessarily unusual, especially following a traumatic mission; but upon determining that Dr. McCoy has not been the recipient of a late-night visit, nor has anyone in Engineering put the captain to work repairing his beloved ship, Spock knows this is now a situation in which he should and can become involved.

By this time, Jim knows him well enough to know precisely what will happen if the captain does not report to either his cabin or to Sickbay at some point during the night following an away mission gone wrong. The only issue, is whether or not the time alone has done the human good, as the expression goes.

Spock does not need to search for long; after checking the usual out-of-the-way Jefferies tubes around Engineering without success, he retreats six decks below Engineering to the shuttle bay. And, as he had suspected, he finds his captain slouching in the pilot's seat of NCC-1702/15, feet up on the inert dashboard controls and absently scanning over a well-worn, hardbacked novel. (1)

Kirk glances up, and regards Spock's intruding head with a rueful grin.

"Took you long enough," he remarks, without annoyance, and offers a small smile as Spock settles wearily into the co-pilot's seat. "How late were you up doing my paperwork for me?"

"You would have done the same, sir," he replies, smoothly dodging the question.

Kirk nods, and stretches down to carefully place the fragile book on the floor under his seat. Then he leans back, both hands slowly scrubbing down his face in weariness, eyes closed. "Status report?"

"Repairs on the warp core are proceeding ahead of schedule, though Mr. Scott seems to believe we are better off not knowing precisely how he is managing that remarkable feat." A small chuckle is encouragement enough for him to continue. "Transporter repairs are completed, as they were primarily due to a power drain which was fixed shortly before the warp core repairs began. All else is proceeding as scheduled, and Starfleet Command has been notified of recent events. They have requested a full report from you at an undetermined time within the next forty-eight hours."

One hazel eye opens, squints incredulously at him. "How did you manage _that_ for me?"

"To paraphrase our Chief Engineer, Captain…you do not need to know."

The captain laughs this time, genuinely and without that shadow of grief which Spock had tried unsuccessfully to dispel yesterday with insignificant condolences and an assuming of command tedium. Perhaps solitude and safety have done what Vulcan strategy could not. It is unfortunate, that he is unable to perform the human act of comforting; but he does what he can, and perhaps it is an arrangement which works for them.

Boots clump loudly to the durasteel flooring, as Kirk turns in his chair to face him directly. "I want to apologize for Commodore Decker's treatment of you yesterday, Spock," he says seriously, and Spock blinks in surprise, for it is undoubtedly the last thing he would have expected.

"The Commodore was perfectly within his rights, Captain."

"And he was wrong to be so as well as incapable of assuming command, not to mention discourteous of your command ability. I wouldn't tolerate that from a visiting dignitary, and I wouldn't have tolerated it from him had I been on board. I hope you know that."

"Had you been on board, sir, the situation would never have –"

"Oh, forget it, Spock." A warm grin belies any exasperation in the tone. "How'd you know where to find me, anyhow?"

"I suspected you would be contemplative of the commodore's…feelings, at the time of his absconding with the shuttlecraft yesterday," Spock replies, only vaguely uncomfortable at this admission of understanding and sympathy. "I am aware that you value your crew more highly than all else in the universe, and you must be hypothetically empathetic to the commodore's unfortunate tragedy."

He never fails to be astonished at how his blunt directness can shatter this human's boundaries like nothing else he has ever seen short of a telepathic attack. It is as if he knows precisely where the chinks are in Kirk's armor, and it is as if Kirk almost welcomes the ability to cut straight through all else to the heart of a problem.

"Wow. That's…pretty deep, human introspection for a Vulcan, isn't it?"

"I do my best, sir."

"Of course you do." Kirk's eyes darken then, from rueful amusement to deprecation, sadness. "I can't imagine being in his position, Spock. It's haunted me from the moment I realized." The captain glances down at his hands, clasped between his knees, and Spock sees a full shudder run through their tight grip. "There's no worse nightmare I can ever dream of having, than what he lived through. Thinking he was saving his crew…and then having to listen to them die without being able to do a single thing…it just makes me sick to think about it, Spock."

"You will never be in such a position, Jim."

"You have no way of knowing that," is the quick, almost desperate answer. "It was an error in judgment, nothing more – there's no guarantee I wouldn't have done the exact same thing! I probably would have, actually." Kirk shakes his head, shuddering again. "That could so easily have been me, Spock. And it scares me half to death."

"It would not, _could_ not, have been you, Captain," Spock counters, more earnestly than before.

Kirk lifts an eyebrow his direction, clearly skeptical of what has been called by uninformed (and jealous) colleagues Spock's _blind loyalty_.

"The situation would not have transpired as it did with Commodore Decker, sir, and that I can safely assure you," he clarifies, internally wondering how Kirk does not yet see it himself.

"And just how, Commander, do you know that?"

"Because one of three situations would have resulted from your giving the order to evacuate the ship in the middle of an emergency, to a planet in the system below."

Kirk's eyes are alight with interest now, and what is probably a slight bit of mischief, for Spock is well aware the human enjoys watching him discourse upon scientific possibilities. "All right, Mr. Spock, I'll bite. What are the three hypothetical scenarios you have formulated for such a situation with this ship?"

"One, you would have given the order, to abandon you for the purpose of distracting the planet-killer alone on the _Enterprise_ , and at least your senior Bridge crew would have politely refused to follow it."

Sandy eyebrows rise comically, and Spock performs the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. Perhaps the human really has no idea just how far his crew will go to protect him; but truth is truth, and that fact remains.

"Two," he continues, ignoring Kirk's muttered incredulity, "the crew would have evacuated, with the two of us remaining until last. I would then, naturally, have performed whatever actions were necessary to render you unconscious, and would have beamed you down to the same location as your crew. Sir."

The addendum on the end seems to be what sends the human's face into an oddly wide-eyed expression of surprise. "And three?" Kirk manages, in a tone several pitches higher than previously.

"Three, I would simply have refused to obey your evacuation order, sir. Between the two of us and the _Enterprise_ herself, we would have formulated a plan to rid the galaxy of the planet-killer before it endangered the members of your crew which had beamed down to that third planet. That plan most likely would have been to fly the _Enterprise_ into the mouth of the machine itself," he continues, brows drawn thoughtfully at the hypotheticals, "but at the least, you would have been spared the situation in which Commodore Decker unfortunately lost his crew. Which returns us to our original hypothesis; you will never be in that position, Captain."

Kirk's lips are twitching suspiciously, as he swivels his chair toward the blanked viewscreen, and then slowly revolves back again, toes scuffing with a metallic squeak on the floor of the shuttle. "So, basically what you're telling me, Mr. Spock…is that I have a potentially mutinous crew, and especially one belligerently insubordinate First Officer?"

Spock blinks innocently back at him. "Hypothetically speaking, of course, sir."

Kirk nods solemnly. "Oh, of course. Purely hypothetically."

"Purely hypothetically, sir."

"Quite so."

"Indeed."

Kirk's sudden grin dispels the last of the shadows which had surrounded them from the events of yesterday. Spock has long since ceased to wonder at how the man can brighten any room without physically radiating photonic energy; it is a non-scientific phenomenon which certainly bears further study.

A throat clearing jolts them both from their shared moment, and their heads turn to see one apparently very amused Chief Medical Officer slouched in the doorway of the shuttle.

"If y'all are quite done, there's a kid out here who needs to do delta shift Requisition checks and is too scared of our resident hobgoblin to just knock on the door," the doctor drawls lazily, though Spock can immediately tell his sharp eyes are silently categorizing the captain's condition.

"And what, precisely, are you doing here, Doctor?" Spock inquires, refusing to be ruffled by this particular volatile human's shameless smirking.

"I was feelin' left out, Mr. Spock. Oh, for the love of Pete, it was a _joke_ , you pointy-eared idiot," Blue eyes roll toward the hangar bay ceiling in a theatrical gesture of disbelief. "Lieutenant Uhura's been tryin' to comm you for the last twenty minutes, Commander. Something about Starfleet Command needing more details about the circumstances surrounding Commodore Decker's assumption of command and his death yesterday."

"Please have the lieutenant inform Admiral Barrett that I will be up shortly. And –"

"Spock." The hand on his arm squeezes gently for a moment, and the captain smiles warmly as he moves past them out of the shuttle. "I'll go actually do my duty and field this call. You at least take alpha shift off and get some rest, I don't want to see you on the Bridge or in the labs until1600 hours. Bones, make sure he eats something, or you're fired."

Spock looks warily at the physician, who is now scowling at the captain's retreating back.

"I assure you, Doctor, I am in no need of sustenance or repose at the present time."

"Yeah, and I'm actually more scared of Jim than you at the moment, so you're coming with me now." McCoy gives him a wicked grin. "Unless you want me to send Christine down to your cabin with a tray and a little too much personalized room service?"

"Your ability to manipulate your fellow crewmen for your own purposes is unsurpassed, Doctor. Truly, a skill to be lauded."

"Indeed," the doctor retorts, grinning. "So, how'd you come along with you-know-who?"

"I believe the captain has grieved for his friend sufficiently, for the present. He does appear in a frame of mind capable of command duty."

"Looked pretty much like he was okay, but I'm counting on you to keep it that way, y'hear me?"

"I believe your unmistakably grating voice could be heard in the delta quadrant, Doctor. My superior hearing, certainly has no difficulty whatsoever."

"Y'know, if Jim didn't like you so much, I would really have to hate you."

"As you humans would say, Doctor…please, do not let that stop you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) In the episode, at least the remastered version (which I am now watching with great respect), the shuttle Decker stole just said NCC-1701/6 on the side, if I remember correctly. So I just used that numbering system, since we know there were far more emergency shuttles aboard than just the Galileo and the Copernicus.


	5. The Squire of Gothos

Yeoman Theresa Ross had been told by her predecessor, who in turn had inherited the position from Janice Rand, about Captain Kirk's dangerously charming personality, but as she prides herself on being a fairly level-headed woman (or at least she thought so, until now) she hadn't given it much consideration when she transferred aboard at Starbase Fourteen.

Anyone in the 'Fleet is thrilled to receive an _Enterprise_ posting, and while the office of Yeoman is one of the places in Starfleet which still holds fairly common sexism, fetching coffee for the Bridge crew on this ship is still a much more enviable position than being a comms lieutenant on some other, less prestigious one. A smart officer knows where to fight one’s battles in order to build experience, if one’s goals are high in the ‘Fleet, and the _Enterprise_ is a name which catches the eye on a resume, no matter what position was held.

Upon her transfer, she hadn't been anywhere near as starry-eyed about her new posting as her room-mate, who still is apparently crushing on both the captain and first officer like a sixteen-year-old cadet, and based on what she knew of Kirk's previous yeomen she figured he might be relieved to have one who wasn't googly-eyed over him.

Then she walked into his cabin one evening with a stack of padds for signature, right into the receiving end of that blinding smile on that exhausted-but-still-ridiculously-good-looking face, and cursed the day she entered Starfleet. Because yes, there was no way she was making it through the rest of her term as yeoman without falling a little in love with the captain.

Kirk is as feminist as they come, which is one reason she can stand to do her job. Her first week aboard, she personally heard him delivering a very public reprimand to someone in Ops who had thought it would be amusing to tease a fellow crewman about wearing the female-identifying uniform instead of the male-identifying, for reasons that are no one’s business. Yet he's almost old-fashionedly charming, that it's kind of adorable; totally at odds with his forward-thinking philosophy, he still allows women to proceed him into the corridors and things like that, odd extinct courtesies she remembers her grandfather showing to her grandmother. (For some reason it just doesn’t feel insulting, probably because she’s seen him offer many of the same to their Chief Medical Officer, and because of his attitude the remainder of the time.)

The captain demands only the best from his crew, herself included – she's already been on the wrong end of a thorough dressing-down for incorrectly filing a Priority One report to the Admiralty – and yet he's gentler than most of McCoy's nursing staff when the occasion calls for it. Kirk has a reputation for 'having a woman in every spaceport,' but she has never been recipient of more than a slightly flirtatious smile (which is pretty much how he looks at half the Bridge crew, so she's not even sure of that), and she's never seen him act inappropriately with any crewman. And if the lower decks gossip is to be believed, there would be any number of takers if he even hinted such.

Captain Kirk is just a strange dichotomy of personality, probably one reason why he clicks so well with First Officer Spock.

Even before transferring aboard, she knew they had the reputation of being a ferociously successful command team; and now, having seen them in action a few times, she understands why they have such a reputation. No one aboard seems to really be able to explain it, it just exists; they have some weirdly symbiotic relationship that turns them into a fiercely brilliant working machine. It's one reason she loves the fact that as the captain's yeoman, she has security access to the Bridge – something no other yeoman does. It's just fascinating to watch them at work.

This ship is certainly never boring, that's for sure.

But today? Today was a little more out of the ordinary. She rarely gets to go on landing parties, due to her station, and so she can't be entirely annoyed as the others obviously are at being inconvenienced by this crazy child-god Trelane. Certainly, strange as the adventure had been, she's seen stranger things in Starfleet, and been treated worse by Starfleet officers than she'd been by the "squire" himself.

But she is completely taken aback to be addressed about the mission by the captain himself, when she arrives in his cabin late that evening with his dinner tray.

"I beg your pardon, Captain," she says blankly, staring at him in complete bewilderment.

Kirk's eyes glow with faint amusement mixed with resignation as he reaches for his coffee cup. "While I am aware that sexism is still a rampant problem in certain branches of the 'Fleet, Yeoman, I had hoped that an apology wouldn't elicit _that_ much of a surprised reaction."

"It does exist, sir, but never from you; that's why I'm surprised you're apologizing. For what?"

"I sometimes forget, Yeoman, that not everyone is able to almost read my mind regarding my plans as well as Mr. Spock is able to. You did an excellent job of playing along this afternoon when I broke into your dance with Trelane, for which I commend you – but I don't want you to think that I believe addressing you, or talking about you, in such a manner is acceptable, by me or anyone else." His eyes sharpen pointedly at her over the rim of his cup. "If someone is doing so, on this ship, I want to know about it. Is that clear?"

"Quite, sir." She smiles, feeling ridiculously pleased. "But apologies aren't necessary, Captain."

"You're an excellent officer, Yeoman."

"I got an expensive new dress out of the deal, sir."

Kirk laughs, and finishes scrawling his signature across the last padd on his desk before handing it back to her. She takes it with another smile, and turns to leave – squeaking in surprise when she nearly bowls over an equally surprised Vulcan in the doorway, hand still upraised in the act of chiming for entrance.

"Sorry, sir," she murmurs, and steps aside to allow the first officer entrance.

Behind her she hears a mutter of frustration from the desk. "I swear to god, Spock, if you're bringing me those backlogged crew evals and expecting them to get done tonight on top of all the reports I'm behind on –"

"Negative. Your signature is merely required on the final page of the report for today's mission."

"Wait, that report's done already?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is that why you were asking me how to classify Trelane?"

"Yes, sir."

"What would I do without you, Commander?"

"Unknown, sir."

She clears her throat, because they're doing that forget-other-people-are-in-the-room thing again, and both officers glance her direction.

"Mr. Spock, would you like for me to bring you up a tray as well?" she asks, indicating the captain's half-eaten dinner.

The Vulcan shakes his head slightly, as she knew he would; their gentle First won't even ask for coffee like the rest of the Bridge crew and it's something all the yeomen appreciate. "That is unnecessary, Yeoman. I am perfectly capable of acquiring my own meals should I require sustenance."

Kirk flushes slightly. "Was that a crack at my self-sufficiency, Mr. Spock?"

The Commander’s eyes widen slightly, like an animal caught in a searchlight.

She stifles a giggle and leaves, because by now everyone on the _Enterprise_ knows only an idiot takes sides between those two particular commanding officers.

This ship. At least it's a posting you never forget.


	6. Errand of Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Spoilers: I prefer to over-warn, so this could be triggering for mentions of power-of-attorney type decisions, mental health, etc. as threatened in that episode. I personally believe that life ceases to function when there is no brain activity, and my own end-of-life documents reflect that; however, if you believe otherwise, you may not want to read this one as it deals with the term 'vegetative state' and your sense of right and wrong may depend on where you land in that debate.

Pushing through the crowded terminal with a ruthlessness that would horrify his polite Southern momma, the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ 's Chief Medical Officer took another look at his communicator screen and roundly cursed the day he entered Starfleet before breaking into a dead sprint for the Starfleet-secured private shuttle bays. Apparently a medical shuttle from the _Appomattox_ was approaching Starbase Delta Phi at emergency warp with a severe trauma surgery and would require the departure of the _Galileo_ precisely on schedule, with or without the passenger she was supposed to be picking up from his xenopsychology conference.

His communicator had been going off with alerts to that effect for the last ten minutes, which really wasn't helping since he was moving as fast as he could through a starbase crowded beyond belief at this time of the shipping cycles.

Scotty better not have saddled him with Matthews as his pilot for the return journey, that's all he had to say – the boy could talk the hind leg off a mule, and he _whistled_ while computing course corrections, a nervous habit that had almost had him prescribing a little something for the young navigator before the captain had finally had enough and just transferred him off the Bridge and down to Engineering, where he'd apparently found his niche. He'd end up strangling the kid before they'd gone a hundred parsecs.

Finally, he sighted the familiar lines and paint job of their shuttlecraft, and stumbled aboard, carry-on bag clipping the doorframe just seconds before the magnetic hatch sealed shut behind him.

"Welcome aboard, Doctor," a dry voice greeted him from the pilot's seat, and he only had a moment to blink in surprise that the captain had apparently spared their First Officer to fetch him before Spock was on the comms with the 'Base towers, having been notified that the _Appomattox_ 's shuttle was already in orbit to take their place in the shuttle dock.

"Please fasten your safety harness, Doctor, as the passing asteroids have caused severe gravimetric disturbances in the upper atmosphere. Base control, this is shuttle NCC-1701/15, requesting permission to depart."

"Tower to shuttle 1701/15 - _Galileo_ , you are cleared for immediate departure, heading one four seven alpha four by seventy-eight degrees. Safe travels, Commander, and watch out for that ion storm just off of Delta Canaris."

"Acknowledged." Spock's quick fingers danced over the controls, and within seconds the starbase was receding from sight.

McCoy watched the blinking lights of the bay doors recede in the distance and hoped that whoever the poor devil was on the _Appomattox_ 's shuttle, they were getting the medical attention needed ASAP. Traveling in through the kind of turbulence they were now traveling out of would have been hell on a surgical team; he wondered what the emergency could have been, to require diversion to a base instead of taking care of the patient aboard ship. Possibly a lack of matching blood type, or an allergy to the usual surgical anesthetic? Maybe mental trauma that the _Appomattox_ wasn't equipped to properly treat, on top of the physical? He didn't recall hearing about any notable non-humanoid crewmen being posted on such a lower-ranking starship, but that didn't mean they hadn't gotten one; Garcia was a good captain, and would have treated any crewman with as much consideration as a ranking officer if they needed medical attention.

Their flight path evened out as they exited the atmosphere into open space, passed through the cluster of drifting asteroids, and he realized he should probably stop being such a busybody and figure out why out of all the hundreds of people who knew how to fly one of these tin cans, Spock had been the one chosen to come fetch him from his unusual five days of working vacation on Starbase Delta Phi.

"So…to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Spock?" he inquired with genuine curiosity, peering around the side of the pilot's seat.

Spock fiddled with another switch, pressed a button, and the shuttle's engines changed from a heavy straining beat to the steadier thrum of the auto-pilot. The doctor unbuckled his harness with a sigh of relief and stretched, well aware he was going to regret that sprint across the starbase terminal later.

"Well?" he pressed, when Spock didn't answer right away. "Don't tell me you had a fight with Jim and _wanted some space_? No pun intended."

Spock shot him a look that clearly said he was an idiot, and he grinned; that was more like it. And yet…there was something odd in Spock's eyes, that by now McCoy recognized.

There was a tiny grain of truth in what he'd just said. Maybe they hadn't had a fight, but Jim was the problem at least. Well, that explained why Spock wanted someone to vent to; he couldn’t do that aboard, or with anyone of a lower rank, he cared too much about the captain's reputation to do that.

"So why don't you tell me what he did, then?" He began to fiddle with the replicator on the wall in an effort to produce something resembling a hot caffeinated beverage, tossing the words over one shoulder in time to see Spock's slight frown.

"I fail to follow the train of reasoning for your assumption, Doctor."

Finally the replicator pinged and disgorged a cup of something black and steaming, which he hoped was slightly more like coffee than the swill they'd served at that conference. "I notice you didn't _deny_ that train of reasoning, though," he observed, settling back in his seat.

Spock's eyebrow inched upward, and he exhaled slowly. "There was a…rather, I found a post-mission discussion to be…disturbing, Doctor." McCoy lowered his untasted coffee in blank shock, because he literally had never heard Spock stumble over words before. "And as the Chief Medical Officer, as well as the Captain's friend, you are the most qualified to weigh in on said discussion."

"Uh, Spock…if it was a private discussion between the two of you, I don't think the captain is going to appreciate you asking me –"

"I must have a second opinion, Doctor."

O-kaaay, he'd also never heard Spock interrupt someone either. He tossed the cup into the recycling canister and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So you thought _this_ was the place to have this discussion, why?" he asked carefully. "Because you wanted it done off the record and completely out of earshot, I take it?"

"Correct, Doctor. I could take no chance that we might be overheard by the wrong person, medical or otherwise."

"You're startin' to scare me a little, Spock. What happened on this mission, exactly?"

Spock looked away for a moment – a clear red flag – before returning his gaze. "I can produce a full report should you require it, Doctor; it is a lengthy mission report, of which only a small portion is relevant to this conversation."

"So tell me that portion, Commander," he prodded gently.

"During the course of our apprehension by the Klingon occupational army –"

"The WHAT?"

"Doctor, please," and Spock literally looked pained at his outburst, another warning alert, "control your emotions. As I said, we were detained by the Klingon commander and his personal garrison. During the course of our detention, I was…interrogated as to our intentions on the planet."

"Interrogated how?" He received the answer he was afraid of when Spock looked away again. "Should I have brought a Vulcan healer back with me?"

Spock glanced back at him, looking slightly surprised. "Negative, Doctor, though the gesture is appreciated."

"What did they use?"

"The device is apparently called a mind-sifter, by the…Doctor, what is it?"

He'd felt the blood drain from his face, because anyone in medical circles knew the dark rumors surrounding the barbaric torture devices supposedly in use on other planets – and the Klingon mind-sifter was one that was talked about in the xenopsychological community enough for him to know its general purpose at least.

"I'm at least vaguely aware of what it is, Mr. Spock," he managed after a moment's regulating the sick feeling in his stomach entirely unrelated to the turbulence they'd just come out of. "Are you telling me that you were subjected to one of those?"

Spock looked wary at this point, as if he hadn't meant to reveal that much and certainly wouldn't have if he'd known McCoy was aware of the instrument. "Correct, Doctor, though I was of course able to withstand the device due to my mental shields."

He cocked an eyebrow at the Vulcan. "That's some very impressive mental barrier-work, Mr. Spock." Also probably total bull, but he’d deal with that when they were closer to home.

He was completely ignored, but decided to let it drop for now if that's how Spock wanted to play this. "At any rate, Doctor. At first, the captain did not appear to realize the possible severity of such a device."

"He probably wouldn't, if you were as functional as you say. And I assume you had no intention of disillusioning him."

Spock nodded. "There was no reason to do so."

"We'll agree to disagree on that, but continue."

"After a short time, we were released from detention, but were later betrayed by the Organians and our true identities revealed to the Klingons."

"Not good."

"An understatement. The Klingon commander then made certain that the captain realized the full potential of the mind-sifter, by detailing precisely what he intended to do with it; to use the device on the Captain, removing as much classified Starfleet information as possible from his mind before destroying it completely, leaving him in a vegetative state."

McCoy stared at him, aghast. "That's – barbaric!"

"It is a fate far worse than death in Vulcan culture, Doctor."

"In human culture too, there's a lot of people who would agree with that."

Spock's head moved upward suddenly, the only indication of surprise he'd ever seen but a clear one all the same – and in one huge flash of insight McCoy had a horrible suspicion he knew exactly what discussion the captain had initiated after the mission; a discussion, probably a demand, which had so disturbed their supposedly unemotional First Officer.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and sighed, scrubbed one hand over his face.

"Jim asked you to make sure that never happened to him, didn't he?" he asked quietly.

This time, there was no mistaking the surprise on Spock's face, showing clearly in his troubled features and darkened eyes.

"And you've got an issue with taking a life, especially his – even if it's under those circumstances, and even if it's at his request."

Spock blinked at him for a moment in silence. Then, "I find your ability to deduce these events nearly as disconcerting as the events themselves were, Doctor."

McCoy sighed, almost sadly amused at the poor Vulcan's cluelessness. "It's not that much of a leap, Spock. I may be a doctor, but I took the same Officer training as every other lieutenant-commander did in the 'Fleet. Just because I disagree with the idea that a man should, for example, ingest a poison capsule rather than let himself be captured by enemy forces who intend to torture Starfleet secrets from him doesn't mean I don't understand the reasoning behind it. It’s a rare thing anymore for those measures to be used, but it does still happen. Unfortunately."

"So you disagree with the captain's request."

"Not necessarily."

"But you just stated, that –"

"Spock, look – I can't make that call, for the captain or for anyone else." Spock looked even paler than usual, and he made a note to see if that was just due to this unpleasant discussion or something worse, leftover from that 'interrogation' session with the Klingons. "I took an oath to do no harm, and that means I can't sanction something like that no matter the circumstances. The captain knows that, Mr. Spock; he'd never think of asking me to."

Spock looked even sicker at that statement. "The taking of life is equally abhorrent to a Vulcan, Doctor. And yet…"

McCoy sighed. Figures, he leaves the ship for one week, and Jim unthinkingly makes a cultural mess and leaves it for him to clean up. "And yet, he had no problem asking you."

"Apparently, Doctor."

He sighed, rubbed both eyes for a moment, trying to figure out how to fix this – he did not get paid enough for this, and the captain was going to owe him so big when he got back aboard.

"Spock, look, we both know Jim can be an idiot."

Spock's eyebrows knitted, adorably irritated on the captain's behalf, but McCoy's upraised hand halted any remonstration that was forthcoming. "Let me finish. He can be an idiot, but he's not insensitive – did you tell him this was bothering you this much?"

Spock looked shifty as hell, and actually fidgeted in his seat.

"I thought so. Why on earth not?"

"We are not on earth, Doctor."

"I swear to god, Spock, one of these days I'm gonna –"

"I was unsure how to begin without…being forced into an emotional discussion I was not prepared for."

That was pretty brutal honesty, for Spock. He regarded the Vulcan for a moment with newfound respect, before choosing his words carefully. "I can understand that, Mr. Spock. But you also have to understand, that the reason for Jim's asking you this is rooted in extreme emotion; you can't really expect some of that to not affect you, now can you?"

"Explain."

"Spock, you told me yourself that being left in a vegetative mental state is a fate worse than death in Vulcan culture."

"That is correct."

"Well, when you add that mentality to what we both know are the captain's worst fears – betraying his ship, and being alone – why exactly does it surprise you that he's of the same opinion?"

Spock blinked at him for a moment, before understanding lit in the back of his eyes.

"Lord knows the man’s more Vulcan than human when it comes to his duty, sometimes. This wasn't just a request of a starship captain of his first officer, Spock. It was a very human reaction to something that probably terrified the crap out of him when he realized exactly what it was capable of doing. Something you should understand firsthand," he added pointedly.

Spock was silent, though McCoy could tell he'd gotten through at least, made some sense of what until now had simply been a chaotic mess of uncertainty in a mind probably still reeling from the effects of one of the worst weapons rumored to exist in the galaxy.

"Jim really should never have asked that of you, Spock, in my opinion. But he did – and that should tell you something about how much he trusts you."

"It is a disturbing and quite illogical amount of confidence to place in another being."

"You'll get no arguments from me. And I can't give you the answers you want, Spock; The lines in situations like that are so blurry I can't in good conscience make even a hypothetical decision out of circumstance. I’m a doctor before a scientist, and I won’t make that call for someone else unless they specify it in their medical directives. I'm sorry I can't tell you what you want to hear." He shrugged helplessly. "It's a burden of friendship, Spock, of family; and you have to accept that Jim sees you as both. That's just the price you have to pay."

Spock looked at him for a moment in silence, before his chair swiveled back to the control panel with a small squeak. He busied himself for a moment making course adjustments (or pretending to at least).

"I am grateful for your candor, Doctor." The words came out of the silence a few moments later, almost inaudible.

"I'm gonna hold you to that, next time you poke at me for bein' an emotional human," he called back, rummaging in his messenger bag for the reading material he'd saved for the journey. "And don't think I've forgotten you dodging the subject of this mind-sifter either, Commander. I may not be the universe's best pilot but I know enough to keep us from plowing into a supernova, so if that migraine you're not doing a good job of hiding doesn't go away you stop bein' an idiot and let me spell you for a while."

He'd swear, if it wasn't a ridiculous notion, that Spock's reflection in the glass of the shuttle windows smiled, just a tiny bit.

Nah, that had to be star-distortion.


	7. The Tholian Web

As a general rule, the commanding officers – indeed the majority of the crew – of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ got along famously. It was one reason why Lieutenant Sulu enjoyed working on the Bridge much more than in the Botany labs; while he'd liked Sciences well enough, the ongoing petty feud between Geology and Xenobotany, grandfathered in during Pike’s captaincy, had grated on his nerves immensely before Captain Kirk had noticed his interest in both piloting and future command, and had approved his transfer request up to alpha shift Bridge duty.

Over the last couple years of their five-year-mission, he'd seen their command chain in pretty much every state of mind, but the times when they were not working like a well-oiled machine were very few and far between indeed, and half the time those instances were basically pretense for the sake of a mission.

But the other half of those few times? Ho boy. Nobody wanted to be on alpha shift when the captain and Mr. Spock were fighting, and as for throwing McCoy in the mix? You were safer in the middle of a Klingon wedding brawl.

What was so scary about it, was that usually there was barely even a word spoken, because of course they were officers first, all else second. But the vibes radiating off the command chair could make your skin crawl, you’d think the instruments of the Science and Library station would be frozen over, and you could pretty much feel the silently murderous fury creeping through the vents from Sickbay.

The Bridge was a dangerous place to be, under those circumstances.

This was why he preferred plants to people sometimes. They were simple creatures, needing only light, loving care and water to flourish, and if you wanted to get creative maybe some music and kind words…right, who was he kidding, they weren’t that much different.

Although you could always chuck a vicious plant out an airlock, and the ‘Fleet frowned upon that when it came to its officers.

He evidently wasn't the only one who had been on the unfortunate receiving end of one or the other's attention this morning, because it was with hilarious alacrity that Chekov accepted his invitation to lunch an hour earlier than his usual, skittering nervously into the turbolift behind him as if afraid the captain would revoke his eating permission.

No need to worry; Kirk was way too busy trying to kill the Commander with his mind behind the back of Sulu's replacement pilot.

" _Chyort_ , I thought that shift would never end," his young friend breathed, slumping against the wall of the lift as it descended toward Officers' Mess.

"Yeah, I have no idea what's going on this time," he agreed, because usually after such a harrowing mission like this last one with the Tholians, those three were tighter than a magnetic seal.

"Almost dying can do funny things to a man."

"That's like a regular occurrence on this ship, Pavel. Also, you were literally going nuts during this mission, and you're acting perfectly normal now."

" _Da_ , that is true." They reached the meal selectors in record time, since it was a bit early for officers' luncheon and the Mess was nearly deserted, and within a few minutes had settled at a table along one wall.

Sulu was halfway through his sandwich when the doors opened again.

Chekov started, soup slopping over the side of his spoon, at his quiet exclamation of dismay. "What?"

"Speak of the devils," he muttered. "Why the heck are they eating lunch together if they’re so angry with each other?"

Chekov half-turned in his chair, and then whirled back around, eyes wide. "You do not suppose they will try to sit with us?"

A crash of flatware as a tray was thrown onto a table in the corner.

"Somehow, I doubt it," Sulu said dryly.

"Should we leave?"

Sulu scowled. No way was he being chased out of Officers' Mess just because he was afraid of becoming collateral damage. "How bad can it get, in a public area?"

-0-

Pretty bad, apparently.

Chekov winced as already raised voices got even louder. "I feel like we should not be listening," he said nervously, giving his soup a fidgety stir.

" _I_ feel like the Captain shouldn't be accusing the two of them of lying _,_ so loudly that they can hear him on Deck Twenty," Sulu muttered, ferociously attacking his carrot cubes to drown out McCoy's equally angry response.

"Wait, did the Keptin just say something about watching them on security tape? Is that not a little creepy?"

"The tape was footage of _his_ cabin. I think it's more creepy that they were hanging out in there while he was supposedly dead," Sulu observed candidly.

Chekov shook his head, hair flying vigorously with the motion. "I am sure there was a good reason."

"If there was, why did they lie about it? Because apparently they did – and Vulcans don't lie. Supposedly." Sulu crunched a carrot thoughtfully.

"That is, how you say it, a load of bull. Have you not read any report Meester Spock has written about an away mission?"

They both snorted, stifling laughter. "I'm expecting food to start flying any second now," Sulu observed, as McCoy's fork ended up pointing two inches from the captain's nose, the other arm gesticulating wildly. Spock calmly avoided the flailing hand and scooted six inches down the table's long bench.

Without pausing, the hand reached out and unceremoniously yanked him back.

Chekov choked on his lemonade.

"I am, frankly, surprised that the doctor didn't get nerve pinched at some point while the captain was trapped in interphase. You didn't see anything happen in Sickbay that'd be worth some blackmail points, did you?"

" _Nyet_ , I remember very little. But the nurses say the doctor was too busy trying to find the antidote, he did not eat or stop for a break at all other than to attend the memorial service."

"Boy, you should have heard them on the Bridge, though. Talk about fur flying."

"That is to be expected, Hikaru. People say terrible things when they are grieving."

Sulu blinked, temporarily blindsided by the earnest expression. Way to be a wet blanket, Chekov. Humor was basically the only weapon he had left against surviving another half shift today. "Well…yeah, I guess they do. D'you suppose _they_ realize that, though?" he gestured with his chin at the group.

Angry hands slammed down on the distant table, and they both winced as their CMO stood, red-faced, and leaned over the uneaten lunch trays. "No, you know what, Captain? If you're that angry about it, maybe you should have been here, not made us all watch you _die_ and be able to do nothing about it!"

Every occupant of the room cringed, including the two eavesdroppers, as the physician then stormed out of the room, no doubt wishing the doors would slam behind him instead of simply sliding shut.

"Maybe we should go," Chekov whispered in the uncomfortable quiet that followed.

"Your censure of the Doctor was uncalled-for, Captain," Spock's annoyed voice, loud enough to be heard for the first time with half the volume of the room now gone, rolled deep in the silence.

Kirk's indignant spluttering was clear, despite his back being to the two of them. "Mr. Spock, I watched the footage, of the Bridge and of my quarters – what he said to you was inexcusable and I will not have you hiding that kind of treatment from me aboard this ship, not from him or from anyone else!"

"Captain." Sulu blinked; there was actual, audible anger in Spock's voice now, though his facial expressions hadn't changed. "Doctor McCoy has already placed himself on report, for behavior unbefitting an officer. Your additional censure was unnecessary, and, sir, frankly was inappropriate, considering I have already dealt with the matter. I do not appreciate my authority being subverted when you have yourself instructed me to be more available to the human members of this crew."

Chekov's eyes widened; neither of them had ever heard Spock sass the captain like that, or defend McCoy that vehemently (for a Vulcan, at least).

"…He placed himself on report? Spock, I didn't know. I did read the reports for the mission when I got back. That one wasn’t in the list."

"That is because I…diverted it, sir."

"From me?"

"And from Starfleet Command. I saw no reason for it to go into the doctor's permanent record."

A spork clanked as Kirk put down the instrument and began massaging his temples. "Anything else you conveniently didn't tell me about this mission?"

"Negative, sir."

"You'll pardon me if I find it hard to believe you right now, Commander."

"Understandable, sir."

"If you _sir_ me one more time today, Spock, I swear I will assign you delta shift duty in the recycling labs for a week."

"If that is your wish, Captain."

"Spock!"

"Yes, Captain."

Kirk sighed, rubbed his eyes wearily. "I'm sorry."

"You acted partially out of ignorance, si-Captain. And the doctor is the one who has been wronged, not I."

"Somehow I think by now we're all a package deal, Commander. So you'll just have to accept my apologies as well."

Spock inclined his head. "Then apology accepted, sir."

" _Delta shift_ , Spock."

"Apology accepted, Jim."

"I'm going to go find McCoy and try to dig my way out of this hole I've dug; you want to come, or do you want to head back to the Bridge?"

"I shall accompany you, if you have no objections. I believe the crew could, as the humans put it, _use the break_ from us?"

Kirk snorted with laughter and stood, picking up his tray. "Someday soon you're going to have to let me out of your sight, you know."

Spock pointedly ignored him, striding past the grinning human toward the recycling chutes.

"That explains much," Chekov observed, as the captain shook his head fondly and followed.

"Like why he's had a ticked-off Vulcan shadow all week?"

" _Da_. Do you suppose…"

"I think that depends on how well McCoy can hold a grudge."

Chekov's nose wrinkled. "That is situation normal, then."

"He might surprise you, Pavel." Sulu picked up his tray with a smile. "I'd better head back to the Bridge; something tells me it'll be a while before they get back and no way am I leaving DeSalle with Kirk's chair while we're navigating an asteroid belt."

It was testament to the week's craziness, that it was two hours later before the captain remembered to comm the Bridge and make sure someone was actually minding the store; but it was worth it to have the balance of power reset aboard ship by the next day.

Some plants are just more high-maintenance than others when they’re growing, that’s all.


	8. Return to Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I could never remember this episode's title, so for people who don't want to Memory Alpha – it's the one with the glowing ball things that held an alien race's consciousness, who wanted to borrow the Enterprise's officers' bodies to build robot bodies, only to then decide they didn't want to give back Spock's body so Kirk had McCoy poison him. That one.

It was not an unusual thing for the _Enterprise_ 's chief medical officer to track down the captain after a tiring mission for one reason or another, usually to discuss the possible psychological ramification on the crew or to ensure that the man didn't have some undisclosed trauma he'd been carefully hiding. Kirk was usually tolerant enough of his overbearing medical concern, knowing it was born of compassion, and half the time they both needed the distraction from a tragic or traumatic away mission. The game was a familiar one, one which neither really played to win so much as to merely to pass the time.

So it was very unusual, very unusual indeed, for Doctor McCoy to find that he'd been locked out of the captain's quarters by a very specific, very high-level security code – obviously designed specifically to keep out not just him but Spock as well, given that they could override nearly every security clearance aboard ship with one or two exceptions (for extremely highly classified information).

"Not funny, Jim!" he called through the intercom, pounding on the sealed door in irritation. A passing hydroponics lieutenant glanced his direction on her way to the turbolift, and then hastily scuttled around the corner at the look of death she received. "Don't make me bust this door down!"

The intercom finally crackled, the static itself almost snapping with irritation. _"Your services are not needed tonight, Doctor. Please stop making a scene in the corridors and see to your patients in Sickbay."_

"Not needed, my eye," he muttered, scowling at the blinking red light that was denying him entrance. It hadn't taken a licensed psychologist to figure out something was wrong, and what that something was, given the horrific events of the day – he still shuddered thinking about them himself – and if he hadn't had his hands full making sure Spock and Christine's brainwave scans were coming back normal he'd have been here long before now.

Well, two could play at this game. He wheeled about and charged through the adjoining door into the First Officer's quarters, vowing to apologize later for the invasion of Spock's privacy, and marched straight through the stiflingly hot room into the shared bathroom between the two cabins.

Triggered by the motion sensor, the door to the captain's cabin slid open at his approach, to an exclamation of outrage from the desk across the room.

"Bones, what the devil do you think you're doing?"

"Exercisin' my right as ship's chief medical officer to override a security lock you have no business putting on your door for anything less than a Priority One call with the admiralty, _Captain_ ," he retorted. "Regulations on the books for abuse of authority, aren't there?"

"And abusing your medical authority to enter Spock's room and get to mine _isn't_?"

"We're talking about you, not me."

" _We_ are not talking at all, Doctor. Now, if you will excuse me." The desk chair whipped back toward the computer monitor, Kirk's angered eyes darting to the screens before him.

McCoy took the seat across the desk and waited.

Nervous typing filled the room for a full two minutes before a hand slammed down on the power button with enough force to set the wall artwork rattling in their magnetic frames. "What do you want, McCoy?" the captain finally exploded, gesticulating wildly with the stylus he'd been using to follow along on a data-padd corresponding to his typing. "Did you come to tell me a great big I-told-you-so? Because you were right, the risks were high – too high." His eyes darkened, anger and grief filling their depths. "Far too high. I should never have allowed any of it to happen."

McCoy regarded him for a moment, arms crossed. "You done?" he inquired calmly.

Kirk glared at him.

"Because no, that's not why I'm here; but since you mention it, I _did_ tell you so, Captain. And you made a command decision despite the danger anyway, one which everyone in the room unanimously backed you up on. So shove your pity party, _sir_."

Kirk's face was rapidly turning the color of a Security uniform.

"The mission had risks – and we all knew those risks when we began it. You sitting in here wallowing about the fact that you gave the hardest command order of your life so far isn't helping anyone, Jim."

The stylus fell from nerveless fingers. "How did you –"

"You say more than you intend to when you're under the good drugs, Jim. You really think I haven't heard you at some point in Sickbay, saying what one of your worst fears is as Captain?"

Kirk swallowed hard, slumping back in his chair. "I never really knew if I could give the order like that, if necessary. To order someone's death in cold blood to save a mission –"

"Not just anyone's, Jim."

"Even worse, Bones. What kind of man does that make me, that I could _do_ something like that, and not even blink until now, after the fact?"

McCoy shrugged. "Makes you a darn good captain; there's a reason you're in command of this particular ship. And in this case, that's all that mattered."

"We were lucky this time."

"Maybe. But Spock would tell you there's no such thing, y'know."

Kirk smiled slightly. "We make our own luck?"

"Something like that."

"I appreciate the effort, Doctor. Now why are you really here?"

Not the subtlest change of subject, but if that's how he wanted to play it, McCoy could play along for now. "Just wanted to check on you, Captain. And tell you that Nurse Chapel and Spock both are showing perfectly normal brainwave and neural scans. No signs of any lingering mental anomalies or trauma from shared headspace. Spock even said he appreciated the fact that her mind is 'unusually ordered, for a human.'

"Quite the compliment."

"It is indeed." McCoy grinned evilly. "I seem to remember him describing yours as 'a study in unpredictable chaos,' don't I?"

The door to the bathroom opened again behind them.

"Captain, I find it highly illogical that you would see fit to use such a high security code in order to preclude access to your cabin, when it is perfectly accessible through – I see Doctor McCoy has already made use of the detour through my own living quarters. My apologies for interrupting."

"And mine for trespassing, Mr. Spock. I didn't touch anything, I promise," he replied, eyes twinkling at the captain's disgruntled expression.

Spock looked slightly mollified. "You had no alternative, Doctor; the intrusion was understandable."

"There was a reason for that code, gentlemen! Obviously, I –"

"Captain." Spock's patient sigh was audible even over the spluttering over being interrupted. "We are both aware you carry a Level Four computer programming certificate; it would have been far easier, and far more efficient, to simply disappear into the depths of the ship and wipe your bio-signature from the _Enterprise_ 's scanners."

"Maybe I thought I shouldn't _have_ to disappear into the darkest corners of the ship in order to get a little privacy, gentlemen!"

"Funny, isn't he," McCoy drawled, leaning back in his chair.

"I do not comprehend Terran humor. However, if your meaning is that he should know better, then I concur, Doctor."

"I am sitting. Right. Here."

"So, that was a nasty little trick you played, Spock, making us all think your brain was kablooey and we had to poison your body."

"I assure you, Doctor, I was no more pleased about Sargon's plan than you; however, it was necessary." An eyebrow shrug. "Its implementation was unpleasant, for nearly every involved party. But then, as the captain said – we were aware of such risks when we embarked upon the mission, and we chose to undertake it despite them. To have a negative reaction to any command decisions based upon those risks would then be highly illogical."

"Oh, very highly, Commander." McCoy toasted him with the hypospray cartridge of headache reliever he was retrieving from the pocket of his scrubs. "Wouldn't it also be highly illogical to be second-guessing those command decisions over and over again when nothing can be done about them, Mr. Spock?"

"Naturally, Doctor. A quite foolhardy endeavor, and an unnecessary one, as no one else aboard certainly has need to do so."

"That's what I thought, Mr. Spock."

"I am alarmed to say that we agree, Doctor."

McCoy neatly dodged a flying stylus. "I can't even," the captain growled and stalked out of the cabin into the corridor, padd and snatched hypospray in hand.

"Think we pushed him too far?"

"Negative, Doctor. I would not be surprised to find him waiting outside the door for us to follow him."

"Well, we can't be predictable all the time, now can we? Where's that darn chess set of his…"

That same hydroponics lieutenant, now coming back from dinner at Officers' Mess, wondered why the captain was sitting in the corridor outside his own cabin door, calmly reading a book on his padd and grinning at something only he could hear.


	9. Journey to Babel

The Lady Amanda Grayson (for so she prefers to be called, as only a scant few off-worlders can successfully attempt her married name without butchering it beyond recognition) is enjoying her stay on the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ far more than she is of course letting on to her Vulcan husband, though she suspects he is likely well aware through their marriage bond of her true feelings. While outwardly she remains most calm and the perfect complement to a prominent Starfleet ambassador, inwardly she is fairly dancing with glee over the fact that for the first time in many, many years, she is able to once again be a human mother.

Spock had always been far too tolerant, in all his peers' (and superiors') opinions, of her human parental idiosyncrasies throughout his adolescence, and the trait has only become more pronounced through distance and time. No one else in the universe, she is quite sure, would have been permitted the liberty she took of divulging such private information as she had done a few nights previous, even to such close acquaintances as the captain and Dr. McCoy. As it stands, Spock indulged her, not only in this instance, and she intends to make her appreciation of his boundary-sacrificing known to him, well prior to their landing at Babel. There, she must revert to being the perfect Vulcan aide once again, and leave her son to his human…shipmates.

Is _that_ what he calls them? She smiles to herself, busily working at an embroidery at Sarek's bedside. Why such an illogical stigma is attached to something so innocuous as a mere word; the horror, calling someone a _friend_ – such emotion! – in Vulcan culture continues to amuse her, as they do not themselves see the illogic in the action, but _kaiidth_. Theirs is a better way, and while she may not agree with every facet thereof she does accept and understand the philosophy behind it.

Sarek eyes her over top of the Sickbay thermal blanket with what appears to be mild boredom, which is a fair assumption given that Dr. McCoy banned all diplomatic work from the room last evening, after Spock had smuggled Sarek's personal data-padd in through a very gullible astrophysics ensign who obviously had a crush on her son the size of a small planetoid.

She is about to put the embroidery away and attempt to entertain him, as a kind bond-mate should, when the door to the recovery cubicle opens and the _Enterprise_ 's Chief Medical Officer enters, a dark scowl affixed firmly to his face. The movement of the door is quiet enough, but it lets in a sudden barrage of noise from the outer ward, a loud discussion and rattling of what she can only assume is machinery of some kind.

Sarek's eyebrows crawl up toward his hairline.

The door shuts, blocking out the noise once more, though McCoy's glare remains, directed more at the door than at the room's occupants.

"How're you feeling this morning, Ambassador?" he inquires, sincerely enough.

"I am perfectly functional, Doctor."

"Chapel says you took a little walk last night, any dizziness or other side effects to report?"

"None, Doctor. I am nearly fully recovered, and will be able to resume my diplomatic duties within the day."

"We'll see about that." The doctor enters some information on a small scanner, before reaching up to adjust a diagnostic panel over the bed. "Mrs. Sarek, how did he sleep?"

"You are welcome to call me Amanda, Doctor McCoy," she replies with a smile, for the man has no idea how incorrect the title really is, grammatically and socially, in Vulcan culture.

"Alrighty. So how did he sleep?"

"Well, Doctor, he –"

A small crash in the outer ward, loud enough to be heard through the supposedly soundproofed walls, startles them both, though Sarek merely looks slightly interested at the diversion. He really must be bored, she thinks with mild amusement.

The doctor articulates something which she is quite sure is a bitten-off Klingon curse, before stepping over to trip the door sensor and sticking his head out into the outer recovery ward.

"All right, that is _it_ – get your backside _back_ in that bed, Spock, or so help me I will _sedate_ you with enough pentathol-D you may never be able to have little hobgoblins!"

She notes with interest that the bellow is loud enough to rattle a loose panel in Sarek's diagnostic board. Whatever is said in response is not loud enough to hear, but apparently is sufficient for the doctor to retreat back into the room with a gesture of resignation.

"They're drivin' me _nuts_ ," he mutters, returning to the diagnostics.

"My son and the captain, I presume?" she inquires with a smile.

"Who else?" A scowl, and the panel seems to meet approval for he moves away from the bed. Sarek has progressed from looking mildly interested to looking mildly annoyed, and now closes his eyes. "They've been driving the whole ward crazy for the last two days because they won't shut _up_."

Amanda cannot help but feel her own eyebrow rise in question, a habit which cannot be broken by now, product of decades in the company of Vulcans. "I find that difficult to believe, Doctor. My son is not a talkative being."

"Tell that to my delta shift staff," is the dry rejoinder. "They've run the entire gamut of redoing the menu for the replicators in Officers' Mess to next period's crew evaluations to Old Terran children's literature to now, they're discussing the possibility of creating a miniature warp bubble within a confined space using only the technology currently present aboard ship."

Sarek's eyes open, gleaming with interest.

"I put a stop to the actual experimenting when Scotty commed me to ask why there were temporal disturbances coming from my Sickbay, so you are not havin' any part of it!"

Amanda barely refrains from laughing as Sarek's eyes close again without another word.

"Anyway." The doctor sets down the scanner, and leans against the wall across from her, arms folded. He grins out of the blue, and she suddenly sees through the façade of irritation which had before masked the obvious affection underneath. "They never get a chance to just sit around and do nothing, Starfleet keeps us pretty dang busy."

"Dare I assume, Doctor, that you might have been able to already medically discharge my son, and are keeping him here on purpose for the sake of enforced recreation, of a sort?" she inquires shrewdly.

"You may _assume_ anything you like, ma'am," is the innocent reply, accompanied by twinkling eyes. "I must remind you of doctor-patient confidentiality, of course, unless I have written permission from Mr. Spock to share his medical records with his parents."

She does laugh at this point, and knows then exactly why Spock has unaccountably taken a liking to this unusual human who is very much at odds with his own personality. They must be like combustible chemicals, harmless enough by themselves but explosively reactive when in close contact; a sharp contrast to the oddly intense affection first born out of loyalty she can see has developed between Spock and his captain. None had been more shocked than she, to learn that it was not just James Kirk, whom Spock had brought with him to his unexpectedly early Time (a beautiful act of human defiance which she privately applauded); she knew then that she must someday find out what was so unusual about this unremarkable human physician, that her son would make such a grand gesture against his culture. And, if the rumors were correct, she owed this man her son's life, and that of his captain for that matter; the man was obviously more devious than his Hippocratic Oath and smooth Southern accent would indicate at first glance.

The shriek of a klaxon suddenly splits the air around them, startling even Sarek into opening his eyes again. McCoy throws his hands in the air with an eyeroll of resignation.

"Annnnnd that'd be Jim trying to get out of bed again. Excuse me, please." The door opens, momentarily deafening them with the siren, and then quickly shuts behind the retreating physician. His voice can soon be heard even through the soundproofed walls, berating the unfortunate captain for his foolhardiness in attempting to leave Sickbay unannounced.

Sarek blinks after the doctor's exit in startled silence.

"Do you suppose he has an escape alarm on _your_ bed, my husband?" she inquires, with genuine curiosity.

Sarek's withering look turns into an incredulous stare as the tirade outside escalates suddenly. As her beloved is incapacitated, the role of peacekeeper falls naturally to her, and she moves hesitantly to the door, peering out as it opens into the ward beyond.

She should not have been concerned.

"I cannot believe you _did_ that!" The doctor's pitch has reached a whole new level of glass-shattering screech. "D'you know how long it takes me to get a requisition signed nowadays for a replacement?"

"Really, Doctor, calm yourself. As First Officer, I am the one who signs your requisitions for the quartermaster; mark it in your reports as urgent and I shall do so at my earliest convenience."

"That doesn't – you still – Jim, what the devil are you laughing at?"

The captain is indeed, half-slid down in his bed, fairly giggling like a child into a spare pillow, and the sight makes her smile. The man meets her eyes over the blanket and waves a limp hand her direction, whereupon her son freezes hilariously like a wild animal in headlights.

" _Amanda_ ," McCoy drawls at the sight of her, and gestures grandly toward what looks like a pile of scrap metal on a small table between the two patients' beds. "Your precious son apparently thought it was _logical_ to take apart my state-of-the-art Tri-D bone scanner in order to reconfigure it to produce a rudimentary light distortion device as part of their warp bubble experiment!"

Spock looks rather like the time when as a very small child, he had thought it was quite logical to take apart her sewing machine in order to examine its inner workings, fully confident he could put it back together – only to discover that at six years of age he did not have the necessary technical expertise.

"It's _brand new_ , Spock!"

" _Was_ brand-new, Bones," the captain interjects thoughtfully.

"The only reason I’m not letting you have it too is you're on the happy drugs and you aren't gonna remember this in two hours anyway," McCoy snarls, waving an empty hypospray cartridge at the bed in a threatening gesture.

"Doctor, you refused to allow me access to my upgraded tricorder, my computer terminal, or any of my data-padds, any of which would have sufficed to at least permit me a tri-d construction program with which to demonstrate my theories to the captain. I was forced to…improvise."

"And a very good job of it you did too, Commander. A full commendation in your file for creative thinking."

"You are so high right now, Jim, it's embarrassing." McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head ruefully. "I should've known better than to leave you two unsupervised for longer than fifteen minutes."

Spock is eyeing his mother with an expression of trepidation mingled with what she knows to be Vulcan embarrassment, though any other human (except possibly the captain, when he is _not_ on a strong painkiller) would mistake it as mere aloofness.

"My son has always been of a mechanical mind, Doctor; you should indeed have known better," she interjects with a smile. "I have several household items which have never recovered from his childhood attentions."

"Yeah, well, I'll bet those items didn't take three months to requisition from Starfleet Command through twelve separate req forms and eight different signatures," is the grumbled response, though she can see that the doctor is finding it hard to remain angry in the fact of Spock's wide-eyed squirming.

"When we create the first warp bubble aboard ship, we will name it after you, Bones," the captain says solemnly. (The words are accompanied by a grand sweeping gesture that promptly knocks half the parts off the table, whereupon they go skittering across the floor in a shower of metal and stripped wiring.)

Spock's look of tolerant fondness across the ward is not very well-hidden, she is somewhat surprised to see. Perhaps the captain is not the only one who is on McCoy's "happy drugs."

Either way, she will not soon forget this voyage, or meeting these unique humans who have somehow accomplished what she had thought to be impossible – worked their way, by stealth or by force (or both, given their personalities), past her son's walls, probably without him realizing it was even happening. Truly, they must be master tacticians.

This will bear future study; perhaps she can convince Spock to, for the first time in years, spend a shore leave at home, the next time they are in the vicinity of Vulcan, and bring his _shipmates_ with him.

She has the feeling Sarek will conveniently find an obscure sector of the galaxy to be during that time, but this voyage has at least been an improvement on the last fifteen years.

Baby steps.


	10. Where No Man Has Gone Before

**Warnings/Spoilers** : Vague spoilers for _Where No Man Has Gone Before –_ the first episode chronologically after the pilot, though the third to air. There's some uncertainty as to the timeline of events during this period, and this is the sequence I've always gone with in my own head-canon.

 **Summary** : Spock reflects upon the captaincy turnover, and how in just a few months, two humans in particular have upended over ten years' worth of habits built aboard the _Enterprise_. Slice-of-life, set before and after the above-mentioned episode and its god-awful mustard uniform choices.

* * *

The past Standard six-month cycle has been a whirlwind of change for Spock of Vulcan, one being who, like all creatures of habit, is not particularly inclined to alterations of habit as a general rule. Were he any other species, he might say he dislikes change; however, as he is Vulcan, it is merely an inconvenience to so be forced to alter one's patterns of lifestyle. However, such a thing is inevitable in a non-stagnant society, and as such it is acceptable, if not slightly frustrating when one has developed such habits throughout the course of over a decade.

Such are the patterns he has settled into most comfortably, perhaps too comfortably, as Science Officer of the flagship of the United Federation of Planets. Although until recently, after a series of technological refits, the _Enterprise_ had not held quite the prestige she does at the present time, the ship was always the pride of the 'Fleet, and it has become more a home than his own planet over the past eleven years, from the time he boarded her as the first lieutenant under the then-Chief Science Officer. In very short order, shorter than any other scientist in the 'Fleet ever had, he soon took that position, and under the expert leadership of Christopher Pike settled into his place in the universe as the foremost Vulcan scientist in Starfleet, and one of the most sought-after scientists even among his own people, who did not all hold the same prejudices his own family and their social circle seemed to about his chosen avenue of profession. And so, for eleven years, Spock has led for the most part the same life, with little to no variation, and that certainly has been most sufficient; there is never reason to alter that which is as close to satisfactory as variable life is able to be.

And then.

Then, Captain Pike decides a decade in deep space is enough, and that he will remain grounded for the foreseeable future – then, Starfleet allows another, much younger, captain to take the helm of the flagship. One who, by all accounts, is an impulsive young fireball of a lieutenant-commander straight off the bridge of an exploratory starship in the beta quadrant. Hardly the highest of credentials, despite the fact that the young man apparently had graduated the Academy in record time and was one of only four cadets to have ever beaten the infamous Kobayashi Maru – and the only one of those four to have done so borderline illegally, one reason why he had gained a reputation of a rule-bender even prior to graduating the command track with highest honors.

All this to say, whoever this James T. Kirk was, he obviously could not be more different from Captain Pike, and Spock is _not_ anticipating the change.

At all.

When he vocalizes this concern on Captain Pike's last evening aboard, the human's rare laughter and advice to "loosen up, Mr. Spock, Kirk will be good for you," is not in the least encouraging.

* * *

Spock is in command of the Bridge (Lieutenant-Commander Mitchell is nowhere to be found, as is typical when they are in drydock anywhere within transporter range of a city with a pleasure district) when the new captain beams aboard, apparently without letting anyone know he is coming and without the proper security protocols in place for his departure from Terra's transport station or reception aboard the _Enterprise_ , if the transporter technician's panicked comm to the Bridge is any indication. This is typical of what he has heard of the human's disregard for regulation, and it does not bode well for their working relationship.

He refrains from indicating such to the transporter room, however, because _he_ at least is a professional and to speak poorly of a superior is _not done_. Instead, he merely notes the fact in the captain's log, requesting that the man pay more attention to _Regulation 417.5, Paragraph 47-a, Security Protocols: Transporter Operations._

Barely has he finished the note to that effect, when to his surprise the turbolift door opens to admit who must be the man himself. Interesting; he would have supposed the human would visit his quarters first, to inspect them for satisfactory furnishings and requisition anything missing from the quartermaster before they depart drydock tomorrow evening.

"Captain on the Bridge," he snaps sharply, seeing that the crew have only given the newcomer looks of mild interest, obviously bored with their auto-piloted stations and slow work-day.

"Please, that's not necessary," Kirk answers in a low tone of amusement as he moves toward the central seat, eyeing it with keen interest. "I'm aware I am a full day early and I have no wish to disrupt anyone's work. I'm just here to look around. Lieutenant-Commander Spock, I presume?"

"Affirmative." Spock rises from the chair and steps down, indicating the empty seat with a nod of his head. "Captain Kirk, we were not notified of your impending arrival."

"I am also aware of that, Mr. Spock, and it was fully intentional." Sharp eyes suddenly glint at him in a surprisingly piercing gaze. "Is there some reason a surprise inspection of my ship should be a _problem_ , Lieutenant-Commander?"

"Certainly not, sir." Also an interesting tactic, if completely unnecessary. As if either he or Commander Scott would permit the ship to move an inch without being space-worthy. Lieutenant-Commander Mitchell, he could not vouch for on that count, but the man was not his concern. Thankfully.

"Good, Mr. Spock. Carry on, then." And with that, the human wanders away – there is no other term for the action – to amble curiously along the Bridge, occasionally pausing to chat briefly with a crewman or inspect a console. Kirk makes one transitory circuit around the area and then heads back toward the turbolift; he apparently intends to leave as unobtrusively as he entered. Spock's eyebrows rise in surprise as the captain merely nods at him before the doors close, hiding him from view.

Strange. This is not the arrogant, self-centered young human with a reckless disregard for regulation and common courtesy he has been led to believe by gossip-hungry crewmen eager to leave the ship at the captaincy turnover; if anything, the man appears to be more on the side of…rather _boring_.

What is the human expression? It could be a very long five years.

* * *

Part of being a leading scientist in any field is the necessary process of re-evaluating pre-conceived conclusions, and re-evaluate Spock does – in most alarmingly short order. Only two possible new hypotheses can be drawn from the data he has so far compiled, in this their shakedown cruise.

Possibility One: Captain Kirk is a fascinating enigma of contradiction, a human personality far more complicated than anyone he has met thus far in his limited human acquaintance, and more complicated than anyone has thus far taken the time to truly understand. Completely overturning any and all expectations or presuppositions of both his command style or rumored personal life, the man has single-handedly put any belligerence or reluctant transfer issues in their place, and almost simultaneously charmed his way into the hearts of everyone else aboard – a phenomenon which Spock is entirely at a loss to understand. It is simply not logical, that one human should so be able to perform such a feat, but it is a possibility. Or two –

Two, the man is simply borderline insane.

Spock is inclined more toward the former, but there are moments when he almost suspects the latter, due primarily to overwhelming supporting data.

Kirk had inherited Captain Pike's quarters, which (unfortunately) happen to be directly next to Spock's own (he had in turn inherited those many years back when Pike's Number One had moved to a different deck entirely to avoid the appearance of fraternization, an unhappy event for all concerned if the humans of his acquaintance were to be believed). This would not ordinarily be such a hardship, except that the captain apparently has an unfortunate habit of standing outside them yelling at the top of his formidable lungs asking if Spock wishes to share a morning or evening meal together, instead of utilizing the ship's intra-comm system as it is meant to be used.

The second week of their voyage, Spock finally breaks down and keys his door to the captain's bio-signature so the door will simply open at the man's approach instead of remaining locked; perhaps now at least the occupants of the cabins on either side of them will be able to concentrate upon their work or sleep without being so disturbed.

It is this same week, that he is CC'd on a memorandum, which apparently the captain shot off to Starfleet Command in a fit of pique – a most verbose four-page rant about the fact that the replicators in Officers' Mess held three hundred different meal options and only twenty-two of those options were vegetarian, and how dare they call themselves an organization of diversity, and if the necessary software patches weren't coded and uploaded to their servers within a week's time then Kirk fully intended to hack one of the meal selectors himself before they reached the galactic border.

Spock stares at the memo for a moment in silence, and wonders how long it will be before he is forced to employ his little-used ambassadorial skills to smooth over a diplomatic incident.

If he recalls Kirk's indignant muttering last night when he discovered that Spock eats the same thing every evening for dinner because most of the options simply aren't palatable, despite the logical fact that they all contain the same replicated nutritional values, well…surely that is coincidence. There are many other dietary preferences aboard, after all.

The human is persistent, he will concede that much at least; and for some reason which Spock is unable to fathom, is also totally oblivious to the fact that Spock is not subject to the same weak-willed whims as the rest of the crew, who have wholeheartedly and as a collective fallen under the spell of Kirk's charismatic charm. If Spock buries himself in the science labs for more than two consecutive duty shifts, he is ferreted out by a sharp-eyed young human; if he refuses a dinner invitation, he is only met with said human barging unceremoniously through their shared bathroom door two hours later with a request for a chess game. When he volunteers for gamma shift duty in Auxiliary Control due to Scott's coming down with Altarian flu, Kirk rotates their schedules to coincide and follows him down on his off-shift, poking around the controls until Spock is driven to forcibly escorting him from the room. When he does not report for a medical examination (he has never been forced to keep those appointments since he never requires medical attention), it is not Doctor Boyce which shows up at his cabin door but his irate captain, who apparently has no issues then overriding the lock Spock hastily puts on the door.

So there comes a point, some weeks into their shakedown cruise, that Spock comes to an all-important realization in this experiment.

Despite all Spock's efforts to the contrary, Jim Kirk simply _will not take a hint_ , as the expression goes; nothing Spock can do will shake the man. He may as well try to resist the force of a gravity well, or remain unaffected by the rays of a sun; there is simply no stopping what appears to be a force of nature.

* * *

Their shakedown cruise is something of a small disaster, and while Spock never cared in the least for Lieutenant-Commander Gary Mitchell – the man was a terrible officer unless the captain was around – Spock would not wish such a fate on any being, human or otherwise. Worse, he would never wish a man to be forced into making such choices as the captain was forced to regarding the fate of another sentient life-form, and then to suffer such personal and professional loss in addition to that. These will not be their last casualties aboard this vessel, he is well aware; but they are the first, and as such are no doubt the most painful to a new crew and a new captain.

He has no frame of reference by which to offer any assistance in such emotional matters, and so he does what he can; assuming the duties of First Officer without being asked at first, and then continuing when Kirk does come to him shortly afterwards, assuring the human that it is no trouble and that he is content to do so until a choice is made about replacing Mitchell.

Spock is somewhat surprised, and not a little apprehensive, that he is Kirk's first choice to replace Mitchell as First Officer. Apprehensive, not just because he doubts Starfleet Command will allow him to hold two offices at once and he much prefers that of Science Officer. But Kirk's confidence in him is far greater than his doubt, and the man's force of personality is far harder to stand against than one would think; almost before he knows it, he is instated as the _Enterprise_ 's First and Chief Science Officers, and the transition is almost seamless, as if he has always been there and always will be. Oddly enough, with this new change in the command structure he and Kirk suddenly fall into place like two pieces of laser-cut machinery, a strangely successful yin and yang which even the crew can immediately sense. Spock has rarely felt such a sense of balance, and this alongside a human who upset his mental equilibrium like none other ever has, when he whirlwinded onto the _Enterprise_ those months ago in a tornado of charismatic charm and chaos.

And then, as they officially set out on their five-year mission, they receive their last transfer, their permanent Chief Medical Officer – one Lieutenant-Commander Leonard H. McCoy. An old acquaintance of the captain's, but other than that having no previous connections to the _Enterprise_ , and Spock cannot for the life of him understand why the man was assigned to _them_.

McCoy is volatile, explosive – a personality unfitted for his important position or for any authority position, for that matter; his personnel file is filled with contradictory reports, commendations for bravery beyond the call of duty and also reprimands for direct insubordination. He is a study in dichotomy like none other Spock has ever seen, and from the moment he meets the human, Spock cannot help but dislike the man. Indeed, such an unVulcan emotion should never exist within him – but dislike it is, and to deny what exists is illogical. The doctor appears to share his distaste, and from the start they are not dissimilar to flammable chemicals in an unstable environment: highly explosive reactions occur when they are in proximity, and no amount of intervention can save the interactions at times.

That such a human should occupy the position of greatest final authority aboard ship in case of emergency – for Chief Medical Officer can, if the situation warrants it, relieve even the captain of command – is cause for deep concern; and while Spock has seen the man display nothing but professionalism while inside the parameters of Sickbay, outside of those doors McCoy is anything but professional.

He demands access to the Bridge, where he has no business being, and not for anything related to Starfleet, merely to wander about and demand the captain's attention over trivialities. He complains vociferously when asked to attend landing parties, grumbling about the transporter's unnatural effects on the body and making less experienced members of the crew thoroughly uneasy as a result. He responds to Spock's demands of excellence from the Medical division of Sciences with insults and flying objects if they happen to be in discussion out of sight of subordinates, and with insults _sans_ the flying objects if _within_ sight of subordinates. He hides alcoholic beverages in his office, when regulations prohibit such things clearly in the Starfleet manual of behavior and ethics. He speaks to his superiors with a lack of respect not only in title but in tone and familiarity, and takes far too much liberty with both his professional and personal advice. He 'pokes fun' of that which he does not comprehend, rather than trying to understand it, and that is an unbecoming quality for one in Starfleet Sciences.

And when the captain goes down in the middle of a firefight on what is supposed to be a routine colony check-in, the doctor is anything but professional – and it is probably that which saves all of their lives.

* * *

Spock has yet to be put in a position of command over humans on an away mission, in fact has not been in command at all, in a very long time – not since a disastrous away mission under Captain Pike well over six years ago. Therefore it is unfortunate, and he will not soon forgive himself for the fact, that he simply freezes, utterly blank with desperate shock, to find that the five other members of the landing party are scrambling for cover and looking to _him_ for orders in the split seconds after being fired upon by apparently deranged colonists armed with Starfleet type-two phaser rifles – supplier, currently unknown.

The captain was struck in the head at nearly point-blank range by a phaser blast a moment ago, in the act of pushing McCoy toward the shelter of a nearby pile of rubble, and is now worryingly motionless on the ground. Spock knows only too well, thanks to eidetic recall and one not-quite-as-severe personal experience, the damage such a blast can do to a fragile humanoid nervous system, and if the blow had been too close to the brain stem…he does not wish to contemplate the possibilities, if he is to maintain his equilibrium in this chaos. But with Kirk out of commission, it falls to him to command the away team, as First Officer, and –

Spock literally has no idea what to do, other than the obvious direction for the crew to find immediate cover.

He ducks as a blast of ozone-scorched energy streaks dangerously close to his shoulder, and turns to see an angry blur of blue shove him roughly in the direction of their fallen captain.

"Get him out of here, you idiot! Matthews is working on a beam-out so _go_!"

The doctor looks vaguely demented, shouting two inches from his face while gesticulating wildly with the captain's humming phaser, but Spock is rather impressed when without flinching the physician calmly mows down another two colonists who are trying to sneak up on Lieutenant Matthews, who is behind a nearby wall dismantling a communicator in an effort to break through their signal block. Obviously, McCoy's oath to do no harm meets the end of its boundaries where his Starfleet oath begins.

The other two security officers are crouched behind a nearby grouping of rocks, firing back at the colonists, and his own Xenobotany ensign, grazed in the shoulder but still functioning, is doing what she can to also signal the ship from her precarious position behind a thin, scraggy tree some distance away. Evidently, the crew had scattered in a dangerously disorganized formation when he did not give the orders necessary to ensure their survival, much less a plan of defense.

By the time these unpleasant thoughts have congregated into something more resembling rationality, he has with McCoy's help managed to pull the captain back behind a pile of rubble, semi-sheltered from the raging battle around them. Thunder rages in the distance, the electrical interference no doubt harming their transporter signals, but the storm will assist them in escape should it begin to rain and they be unable to beam out within a few moments.

He hears McCoy swear softly, medical scanner whirring rapidly over Kirk's head.

"Doctor?"

"Took that blast straight to the head and neck, and my guess is it was set on heavy stun – point-blank range, too," the doctor snarls, fumbling in his medikit for a hypospray. He squints at the small print on the side in the dim light and then tosses it back with another curse, scrounging for a different one. "That's a massive neural shock directly to the brain, on top of the normal stun damage to the body's nervous system. Could be anything from just a bad headache to blindness and paralysis, I have no idea until he wakes up. Neural damage is a given, I just don't know how much without a medical tricorder. This is the last time we don’t come with a full medical kit to an away mission, I don’t _care_ if the reports said the people were peaceful."

Spock ignores the chill that runs through him at the words, despite knowing it is not from the rain-scented gale which whips through the area, heralding the arrival of the impending storm. The colonists appear to have lessened their fire; perhaps they are frightened of the hurricane-force winds which he remembers reading of, in their official briefings.

"We need to get back to the ship, Spock!"

"I am aware, Doctor," he replies mechanically, scanning their surroundings for a possible shelter; should they not be able to contact the ship, he must now find a way to keep them all safe. The colonists appear to be down to only a few men remaining, but he knows the Starfleet weapons were set only to stun and it will only be an hour at most before they awaken. At the sight of his head appearing over the ruins Matthews looks their direction, obviously weighing his chances against the current odds. After a calculated glance around, the young man sprints toward them, ducking and weaving through the rocks. He skids to a halt a moment later, spraying soil and bits of dusty plant-roots in his haste to stop.

"Lieutenant, report."

"Mr. Spock. My communicator's working, sir, but I can't tell if the signal's punching through this cloud cover or not. Nothing's coming in from the ship, sir." Matthews's eyes darken with worry. "If Mr. Scott got my SOS, though, you can bet he's working on it now, Commander. How's the captain, Doc?"

"Still out, Lieutenant." McCoy's reply is curt as he tilts his head, listening to the captain's breathing – Spock has noted with curiosity on more than one occasion this human prefers more archaic methods of hands-on medical applications rather than relying solely on tools and mechanical devices for diagnosis. "Did you –" He is cut off by a shrill chirp from the battered device in the security lieutenant's hand.

_"Scott to landing party, come in."_

Matthews raises a fist in the air in silent victory and then scrambles a few feet away to listen for beam-out instructions, sending a warning phaser blast with his free hand toward a foolhardy colonist who has gotten too close.

"At least we – " McCoy breaks off abruptly as the captain's eyelids flutter, forehead creasing in pain. "Here we go. Captain? Jim, can you hear me?"

Kirk's eyelids flicker, vision roving about aimlessly for a moment – then shock visibly sets in as sensation returns to at least some portion of his body. An expression of almost desperation crosses his face, and his eyes suddenly fill with tears of pain before blinking clear.

"Pain's a good sign, believe it or not, Captain – means there's not permanent damage to that hard head of yours," the doctor says in a more modulated tone, with a reassuring pat to the shoulder.

Spock can see the clear agony in the captain's eyes, as they dart around with almost panicked rapidity, trying to take in the situation. As he moves closer, Kirk's gaze lights on him and he sees a small measure of relief lessen the lines of tension in the man's face.

"Lieutenant Matthews is communicating with Mr. Scott to coordinate a transport through these storm conditions, Captain. We have no casualties yet other than yourself and a minor injury to Ensign Li's shoulder. Doctor, if the captain is stable, you should see to the ensign, as it seems the colonists have retreated in the face of the approaching electrical storm."

"Li is an officer just like the rest of them, Mr. Spock, and she knows protocol – unless she's seriously hurt, I'm staying right here! Don't look at me like that, Jim, you haven't even tried to move yet."

The captain manages a passable glare, which loses any power it might have when he rebelliously does try to move, and nearly passes out on the spot. Having peered over their hiding place to ascertain the status of the colonists, Spock turns back in alarm as Kirk's face drains to a frightening shade of white and his head falls limply to one side.

"Captain. _Jim_. Hey!" A sound slap to the face, startlingly loud in the pre-storm stillness, makes Matthews jump several meters away. Even Spock startles. The captain's eyes flutter back open, only half-aware of his surroundings; his breathing is shallow, perspiration standing out on his pale forehead from the pain. " _Don't_ try that again," McCoy warns, jabbing a bony finger into the gold tunic. "You took a phaser _rifle_ blast point blank to the head, meant to take down a man twice your size and keep him out for twelve hours. I have no idea what damage that did to your nervous system and you better not make my job harder by bein' a stubborn idiot."

"Saved you," the captain mumbles petulantly, and receives a gentle swat in acknowledgment.

"Like I said. Idiot."

"Doctor," Spock reproves, mildly disturbed by the level of familiarity the man seems to think he deserves with a superior officer. Medical expertise or no, such disrespect is unacceptable.

"'S ok, Spock." Kirk manages a faint smile, though Spock sees the trembling fingers which grip the stubbly grass beneath them in an agonized grip, tearing some of the fragile stems out at the roots – the man is good at hiding his pain, but not that good. "Sorry…left you in charge, here."

Spock frowns, not at the apology, but at the sudden breathlessness in which it is delivered. "Doctor."

"I hear him. Jim, are you having trouble breathing?"

"…I…maybe?"

In one fluid move, Spock is on his feet and darting toward Matthews, at the same time that their resident physician roundly curses his captain, the mission parameters, the day he entered Starfleet, and the combined dubious parentages of the deranged colonists, in most colorful terms. (Spock absently makes a note to erase the auto-recorded audio files from the medical scanner before it uploads itself to the _Enterprise_ 's intra-network when they beam back aboard.) He snatches the communicator unceremoniously from his surprised subordinate's hands and presses the emergency recall button before comm-ing the Bridge, just to reinforce the importance of the recall in case it is not Scott who receives the signal.

_"Bridge here! Matthews, what is –"_

"Spock here, Mr. Scott. The captain's safety is now compromised and emergency beam-out is required. Make whatever preparations you must, but see to it that the transporter is ready immediately. Is that clear?"

_"…Aye, sir. But I canna take more than three of ye at a time in that case, sir, we only have half the pattern buffers recalibrated! Is the situation –"_

"That will do, Mr. Scott. Wait sixty seconds and then lock onto the captain and Dr. McCoy's signatures; transport their group first."

_"Aye, sir. Sixty seconds and counting, sir."_

"Mr. Spock, we'll be fine here, the colonists are all but gone now and they aren't coming back, not with that storm poppin' up," Matthews says, pointing at the roiling clouds. "You can go with the captain and Doctor McCoy, I'll round up the others and follow right after you."

"Ensign Li is wounded and will go with the doctor and the captain."

"I'm fine, sir," a female voice pipes up from behind them, and he turns to see that the remaining three members of their party have finally managed to make their way across the empty spaces of the area, now that the colonists have stopped firing at them. Corban from Security has a hand under Li's elbow, though she appears to be trying to shake the man off with a tolerant frown. "It's just a graze, Mr. Spock, already cauterized from the phaser blast," she adds, and holds up her tricorder, "and besides, I want to get a few scans in here before the rain hits, see if there's something in the air that could explain why they were acting like this. If it's some kind of toxic flora, Xenobotany needs to know about it right away. It could have latent effects on the landing party."

"Are you certain, Ensign? I would be more than willing to perform the scans and transfer them to your terminal for review."

"With respect, sir, it's not the same. This is my first landing party, and I'd like to do it myself."

"As you wish, Ensign. Mr. Matthews, you are to oversee the remainder of the landing party and the safety of all hands. If at any time you see the colonists returning you are to signal for an emergency beam-out, regardless of the tests' completion status. Ensign, you have no more than ten minutes to complete the scans, fewer than that if the storm conditions grow any worse."

"Aye, sir."

Spock nods and returns to the captain and McCoy, feeling oddly accomplished; perhaps, with practice, he may yet learn to command humans.

But now, he has far more concerning things to occupy his mind – such as the fact that the man who is supposed to be teaching him to command said humans is at present struggling to even draw a breath, eyes wild and frightened and hands clenching feebly in the dry grass.

Spock drops to one knee just as Kirk's breathing stutters and grows more labored, sounding exceedingly painful.

"I can't do anything until I get back to the ship and can give him a localized anti-paralytic and some tri-ox straight into the bloodstream," McCoy says in a low tone, brushing a hand gently through the captain's hair in an oddly fatherly gesture.

"We will have beam-out within moments, Doctor. Captain." Kirk's eyes flick over to him and brighten in recognition. "Within sixty seconds you will be aboard the _Enterprise_ , and Doctor McCoy will be able to alleviate your symptoms."

He receives a nod of comprehension, which is apparently a mistake as the captain then begins actually choking, breath hitching painfully in his throat.

"Hey, hey! Jim!" The physician nearly throws himself across the convulsing figure, arms bracketing the man's head. "Look at me! You do _not_ get to suffocate when we're just a few seconds from home! Y'hear me? _Breathe_!"

No less concerned himself, though very much less vocal, Spock sits back on his heels for stability as he feels the familiar hair-raising sensation of a transporter lock made through adverse electrical conditions; and a moment or so later, the _Enterprise_ 's transporter room appears through the haze of disappearing photons.

The moment they finish materializing, McCoy is scrambling toward the medical team which has been waiting to the side of the room, leaving him on the transporter pad with a very panicked James T. Kirk. The captain is still fighting for breath, hands fairly shaking on his chest with the effort, and his eyes are now dull and hazy from both exhaustion and lack of oxygen. No doubt, being unable to breathe due to paralysis of the lungs or nervous system must be a most frightening sensation for a human, who relies far more on the autonomic systems than would some other species, such as his own.

"Nurse, I need a standard tri-ox compound and a localized anti-paralytic, and get me an oxygen kit just in case, _stat_. Scotty, get on the comm to Christine and tell her to set up examination room three for an electro-cardio analysis and a complete neural scan…What? I don't care _who's_ waitin' for an official report, you do what I say _right now_ and they can hold their horses, you understand me?”

On impulse, Spock secures his mental shields and then reaches out, hesitantly takes the trembling fingers in his own – and is then suddenly seized in a panicked grip as if he is the only lifeline tethering the captain to reality at the moment. The sheer amount of terrified pain that immediately swamps even his Vulcan control nearly floors him; that a human could so effectively hide that in such a situation, is nothing less than impressive.

"Doctor, he requires something for the pain as well," he calls sharply.

McCoy glances up in surprise from selecting a hypospray, studies them for a moment, and then nods curtly, grabbing another. "Most of it will interact with the anti-paralytic but I'll do what I can until it wears off. Then you'll get all the good stuff I can give you, Jim, I promise."

The doctor is the recipient of a human gesture Spock understands is called a "thumbs-up," an apparently positive indication of approval, as McCoy approaches with a series of injections.

"Ok, here we go…"

The hiss of a hypospray, and Spock feels the slight shock of surprise which runs through Kirk's mind as the tri-ox suddenly floods his airways with pure oxygen, an almost instant rush of clarity. While the oxygen does nothing to help him breathe again, it will help him not feel that he is suffocating while his muscles begin to relax from the paralytic stun effects.

"And this one's the good one, you should be feelin' better in about an hour, be able to move again in four.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, and the captain smiles briefly, exhaustion obviously taking over now. His eyes slide closed a moment later, grip loosening on Spock's hand before going limp completely.

"'Bout time. All right, let's get him out of here. Move it, Anya." The physician gestures brusquely to the team still waiting patiently inside the transporter room doors, and they scramble to work, shifting the half-conscious man to an anti-grav gurney and beginning the trip down to Sickbay.

"You going to the Bridge?"

"Affirmative. I must report the tenuous situation below to Starfleet and await further orders, Doctor. Mr. Scott, please ensure that the remainder of the landing party arrive back safely once they signal readiness, and report to me once they have done so."

"Aye, sir."

"I await your report on the captain's condition, Doctor."

"Uh-huh." Blue eyes glint oddly at him as he leaves the room, making him repress the human urge to squirm. "And if I don't, I suppose you won't be beatin' my door down about that report, will you?"

"That would be unnecessary, Doctor, as I have full access to every report in the ship's databanks."

"So you do, Mr. Spock." They reach the turbolift and wait for the doors to open, whereupon they enter in increasingly awkward silence. They are almost to Deck Six when McCoy's staring has grown too disconcerting to ignore.

"Doctor, if you have something to say to me, I suggest you do so."

"Nope, nothin', Mr. Spock."

"That, I highly doubt."

"Okay, fine, Mr. Spock. You're a Vulcan, yes?"

"I believe we established that fact long ago, Doctor."

"Well. Weren't you just yammering the other night to me and the captain about how Vulcans don't have feelings because they're evil or something like that?"

Spock exhales in a controlled gesture of exasperation. "The Vulcan way, Doctor. And it is not because they are evil, but you are essentially correct. Such things would be distractions, and dangerous to the Vulcan way; therefore we do not form attachments, to either people or objects, as you humans do."

"Uh- _huh_."

"Your eloquence is, as always, astounding, Doctor."

Spock is quite humanly grateful that the lift chooses this moment to ping for Deck Six, Sickbay, and disgorges McCoy onto that unsuspecting floor's unfortunate patrons, all of whom obviously have taken the intelligent approach and are hiding somewhere, leaving the corridor empty. The doctor strolls out into the hall, hands in his pockets, and then half-turns, spinning smartly on one heel.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. Spock."

Spock sighs and pauses the closing door. "Yes, Doctor."

"Just so you know…us _humans_? We don't usually hold hands with people we don't have _feelings_ for," the doctor says with a smirk, and leaves him staring at the closing doors in consternation.

* * *

It is five hours, not four, before McCoy sends a memorandum to his personal data-padd telling him that the captain is past the worst of the side-effects of the phaser stun, and Spock duly informs the alpha shift bridge crew of the fact and excuses himself. Given that his duty shift ended some two hours ago, this is nothing strange, and he does not understand the looks exchanged between Lieutenants Uhura and Sulu over his abrupt departure – but humans are impossible to understand, and so he does not concern himself overmuch with trying.

He has already debriefed the landing party and sent a report to Starfleet Command, who have ordered them to remain in orbit until the _Grissom_ can come to their aid; the _Enterprise_ is at heart an exploratory vessel, while the _Grissom_ is better equipped to handle the type of long-term, conflict-heavy undertaking which may result from a second altercation with the colonists – and the question yet remains, who supplied them with 'Fleet-issue phaser rifles? They are not standard issue, in that quantity; and it was certainly that weapon which so nearly could have ended the career, if not the life, of their reckless captain this afternoon. The _Grissom_ can be handed that problem to investigate, allowing the _Enterprise_ to continue on her way.

McCoy is in his office in Sickbay, pouring himself a drink, and it is only the sheer exhaustion evident in every feature of the man's lined face that prevents Spock from a disapproving lecture on the breaking of regulation, blatantly and indeed while still technically on duty.

"Go on," the man mutters, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the recovery ward, "I gotta sit down for a while."

Spock raises an eyebrow, and pauses just inside the door long enough to ascertain that the physician does, indeed, actually make it to his chair rather than collapsing on the floor; it is no certain eventuality if his current state is any indication.

"Doctor, are you in need of anything?" he inquires politely, for he can be professional as well, despite this man's insistence at provoking the opposite from him.

"A new job," the man replies sourly. "One where my superior _isn't_ a self-sacrificing idiot with a hero complex. I'm too old for this."

Spock's other eyebrow inclines to join the first, but he is halted by an upraised hand. "Don't even," McCoy drawls, stifling a yawn. "Just get out of my office before I remember I don't really like you."

"I assure you, the feeling is mutual, Doctor." The door closes behind him, and he hears what can only be an empty hypospray cartridge clank solidly against it. He wonders anew what enjoyment this unusual human derives from turning inanimate objects into projectiles. Most peculiar.

The captain is ensconced in a recovery cubicle Spock finds to be surprisingly warm; usually he is of the opinion that Sickbay as a whole is far too sterile and chilled for his blood. Likely McCoy raised the temperature to ward off any lingering blood pressure drops from the paralysis. Kirk is awake, if the slow-blinking drowsing state can be called that; the man is obviously on a stronger pain reliever now and is slightly euphoric from being free of the terror of earlier.

Strange, that the room seems to grow oddly warmer when Kirk brightens, smiling as he sees his visitor.

"Captain. I trust you are much improved despite the doctor's ministrations."

Kirk snorts a laugh into the pillow as he rolls to one side to face Spock as he sits in the chair beside the bed. "You two are going to either be the death of me, or the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that?"

Spock allows his skepticism to clearly show his opinion on that particular piece of human idiocy.

The captain's smile softens. "Ship?"

"The rest of the landing party has been debriefed, and the reports are awaiting your perusal, sir. Starfleet Command has decided we are to wait for the arrival of the U.S.S. _Grissom_ , and to partner with them in the attempt at a second contact with the colonists below. Other than that, no issues of note to report."

"Very good." A slow, drowsy blink as the man fairly melts into his pillow. "We need to work on your command skills, Spock – remind me when I'm out of here. I didn't think about the fact that I'd leave you in the thick of things if I went down on a mission."

Spock exhales slowly. "I admit to being of little benefit to your crew in this instance, sir. I welcome the instruction."

One hazel eye peers at him curiously. "When was the last time Pike had you command a mission?"

Spock looks down at his hands. "Over six years ago, sir."

Kirk sits up on one elbow. "Six years ago? He made you CSO and never had you lead an away team, even a Science one?"

"After a particularly disastrous attempt at commanding humans in the aforementioned instance, we determined I was not the preferred candidate for such a position."

"That is…" The profanity was obviously swallowed, and the anger along with it. "Unacceptable," Kirk continued, more calmly. "And I will not have my First Officer unwilling, or unable, to command my crew."

"I am willing, sir. My ability, has yet to be proven."

"Then we will prove it, you and I." He is given another of those ridiculously blinding smiles, that have so upended his entire life in such a short period of time – no human has ever, with so little effort, been able to charm his way past such strict Vulcan barriers before. "Do I have your commitment to this, Commander?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Excellent." The human's exhaustion shows now, obviously having taken second place for a few moments to emotional outburst. Kirk slumps back to the bio-bed with a huff of breath, dragging a sleeve over his forehead. "Word to the wise, Mr. Spock; fastest way to scramble a man's brain is a phaser blast to the head at point-blank range."

"I shall keep that in mind," he replies dryly.

"All things considered, you might have an advantage now at chess," Kirk adds, with a wickedly provoking sidelong glance. This incorrigible human has been entirely too successful at holding his own at the game; they are evenly matched on the best of days, and he well knows it.

"Perhaps." He acknowledges the barb with a slight upturn of the lips, the only indication of amusement he will ever show, and that only to this one human. "However," he continues, despite the hopeful look, "as I have no wish to further incur the wrath of Doctor McCoy, that will be an exploration for another day."

Kirk winces. "He's still pretty mad at me, isn't he."

"Quite so, sir."

"Send him in on your way out, would you?"

"Of course. Good night, Captain."

Oddly enough, he does not have to return to the doctor's office; McCoy is waiting just outside the door, blatantly and unabashedly eavesdropping on their conversation. The human meets his eyebrow with an unrepentant look of _What?_ before side-stepping him into the recovery cubicle without another word.

Spock resists the human urge to shift his eyes toward the ceiling, and merely leaves Sickbay.

Insufferable human.


	11. Conscience of the King

"You could have just told me all this, you know, sir." The young crewman's eyes – strange, how that haunted look was so familiar now – were more sad than accusatory, however the words sounded. "I had a right to know."

"Fair enough, Lieutenant. For that, I apologize. I thought perhaps ignorance might offer some small measure of protection from further attacks on you, but you are quite right – it was an error on my part not to at least tell you my reasoning, and I'm sorry. You should have heard it from me, not by overhearing McCoy's medical log."

Riley sighs, scuffs a boot childishly along the durasteel flooring with a horrific screech that makes them both cringe. "Sorry. Anyway, Captain…I'm sorry for going off half-cocked like that. It's just…"

A soft exhale, and the captain shakes his head. "Trust me, Kevin…I know."

"Am I to be put on report, sir?"

"Are you kidding me, Lieutenant?"

Riley chuckles, the lines of tension around his eyes easing somewhat. He glances out the windows at the rapidly passing light of a nearby nebula, pink and amber-hued light illuminating his face for a brief moment before the time-delayed vision swirls away again, carefully controlled by visual enhancers while the ship is flying at the dizzying variations of warp speed.

Kirk watches him for a moment in silence. He had been aware of the young man's connection to Tarsus IV, since his captain's clearance allowed him access to classified files in his crew's personnel folders; but he had not recognized in the young man, the boy he had briefly known two decades ago, and the last thing he would ever do as captain is bring up a traumatizing event without consent of the crewman involved. Granted, Kirk is well aware of his own probably unhealthy way of coping with trauma – he has a habit of blocking out mentally, things which could damage his score on psychological evaluations, as they could jeopardize his command career – but he should not have assumed Riley would be unaffected, even had he not been one of the Tarsus Nine. There were 4,000-odd survivors of the massacre, after all; and he had simply not thought to push further into the young man’s personal life.

But it was an inexcusable oversight and a poor tactical decision in this mission, all things considered; and but for McCoy's timely medical expertise, it could have cost the boy his life. Had he been more aware, more intimately acquainted with his crewman's history, he might have prevented that initial poisoning attempt.

Lesson learned; he would not make the mistake again.

"My appreciation, in that case, Captain. And my job? Please don't leave me down in Engineering forever, sir, I'll go raving mad having to babysit the plasma relays for hours on end…" (1)

"You're on beta shift tomorrow, taking over Lieutenant Uhura's chair on the Bridge – and I'd better not see you showing up late."

The young man beams. "Aye, sir. Thank you, Captain."

"Now." Kirk rubs a hand over his face in an uncharacteristically open gesture of weariness; normally he would not so show weakness in front of a crewman but this one in particular has seen far worse, after all. "It's been a very long day, for both of us."

"I can take a hint right enough, sir." Riley's grin lights up the Observation Deck, and it does the captain's heart good to see. Time changes all men, not all for the better. Fortunately for the _Enterprise_ , the latter had occurred here. He has high hopes for Kevin Riley. "I'll take my leave of you, in that case, Captain."

"Good night, Lieutenant."

"Same to you, sir. Oh, and Captain?"

"Yes, Riley?"

"Shall I tell your shadow it's safe to come closer, or is the war ongoing?"

Kirk's eyebrows rise at the impertinence, though he lets it slide in light of recent events. Also, the point is fairly well-deserved; he should know better than to have a spat with his XO in full view of a Bridge crew who is not comprised solely of his primary alpha shift officers. Crewmen gossip, that is only to be expected. It was not the first mistake he made today, but it will be the last.

"You're pushing your luck, Mr. Riley."

"Seems to be the trend today, Captain. But I do apologize. I'll let him know you're alone, shall I?"

Kirk waves a hand impatiently in dismissal, excusing the familiarity as a reaction to the events of the day; there had been, and still are, more important battles to fight – far more dangerous demons to demand his attention tonight. His head drops forward to rest on the chilled transparent aluminium of the observation windows, and a moment later a flash of blue in the gleaming reflective surface lets him know that his 'shadow' has entered the room, silently as a cat.

He doesn't deserve Spock's unending patience any more than Spock deserved to bear the brunt of his anger earlier, though when he mumbles something along those lines, the soft huff he hears from behind him is the Vulcan equivalent of a dramatic sigh of exasperation.

"Your entire statement is based upon the incorrect assumption that I am capable of being offended by your human emotional outbursts, Captain. As such is not the case, your logic is faulty and your premise flawed."

He smiles silently at the glass, knowing he is forgiven.

"How long have you been sitting out there?"

"Not long."

He glances sideways. "From someone who usually reels off an exact number of minutes and seconds, I take it that means much longer than you want to admit to me."

Spock raises an innocent eyebrow. "I admit nothing, sir."

"I suppose you also won't admit to chasing away anyone else who wanted to use the Observation Lounge tonight, since I've been in here at least two hours, and that was before Riley came in - and we weren't disturbed once?"

"Your supposition has some merit. Doctor McCoy was most vociferous in his intentions to interrupt your conversation with Lieutenant Riley."

Kirk groans, turning away from the window to lean against it, facing his First. "Thank you for averting that disaster, Mr. Spock. I just…" He stops, swallows hard, as Memory tries to choke him, ever so briefly. "I need some distance, from this, and he is a firm believer in therapy-by-confrontation."

Spock's eyes are almost too understanding. He has to look away after a moment to avoid betraying just how shaken up he still is, two decades after the original events but only hours after having that skeleton dragged out of the closet by multiple people today.

"I can't take that, not tonight. I've seen too many ghosts today, Spock; I can't talk about them, not yet."

"I thought as much. I…regret, if my actions today contributed to your current state of mind, Captain. That was not my intention."

Kirk glances up again, eyes soft. "I know, Spock. Frankly, it was foolish of me to make inquiries of the computer's library banks right in front of you and not expect you to investigate them. Perhaps…perhaps some part of me, deep down, wanted you to find out so I didn't have to tell you. I don't know."

Spock's eyes glint in the dim starlight. "Sir, I am a scientist, not a psychologist."

Startled laughter fills the Observation Deck, driving away both the physical and metaphorical chill that had crept in during the time he'd spent here in quiet – too quiet – reflection tonight. "Mr. Spock, Mr. Spock," he says finally, and shakes his head in wonder, "whatever would I do without you?"

"Be forced to endure the force which is Doctor McCoy's medical concern alone, for one thing," Spock says dryly, indicating his personal data-padd, across which is scrolling another message – this one in all capital letters – ordering Spock to ensure that the captain eats something before retiring for the night.

"Angels and ministers of grace, defend us." (2)

"Indeed."

"Is that really the eighth message he's sent you tonight?"

"It is."

"Good grief."

"Quite."

"Well, let's swing by and collect him before he has an aneurysm, for pity's sake." Kirk rolls his eyes, tugging absently at his tunic as he straightens from the window, casting one final look out at the sparkling starlight.

"His overreactions are understandable, given the knowledge which he received today," Spock says quietly, but with a pointed look that makes him duck his head in discomfort.

"I know. I should have told him before. Frankly, I'm surprised the flag and classified section in my medical file didn't raise his curiosity before now."

Spock hums in quiet agreement as they move toward the doors. "The classification perhaps is too high to even flag for his attention, or at least it was when he first transferred aboard, Captain. Even my security clearance was only able to access basic public records, and while I could see the sealed section in your personnel file, I doubt I could have accessed it given what looked like the highest level of Starfleet encryption. Had I even attempted it, which I did not, I would most likely not have been able to access your personnel file on the matter, much less your medical file."

"Good to know," he replies, not without humor. "It's not light subject matter, Mr. Spock. I recommend Dickens, if you're that desperate for a recreational evening read."

"I shall keep that in mind, sir."

The doors to the Observation Deck open, spilling bright light into the dimmed softness of the Deck. A figure detaches itself from the floor of the hallway outside with a muttered grunt of annoyance.

Kirk turns an accusatory glance upon his First, who only blinks innocently back at him.

"I said your supposition had _some_ merit, sir."

"And I believe _I_ said that I could not take this tonight!"

The pitch of his voice has risen several tones without intention, and he cannot stop the slightly desperate edge that creeps into it, at the feeling of being cornered. There is no possible way he can deal with this, not now – not when Spock has just somehow managed to get him into a better frame of mind than he has been all day. That so very fragile mind-space is in serious danger of shattering, and his command control will shatter with it if he is not extremely careful.

"Calm down, Jim." McCoy's eyes are concerned, though his cool drawl is nothing but soothing. "Spock already gave me The Talk, okay? Let's just…go get dinner. I promise, that's all."

Kirk regards him with a suspicious gaze, well-deserved after having been victim of more than one well-meaning medical trap before. Though in all fairness, Spock has yet to be part of something he knows will seriously hurt him emotionally. For a supposedly emotionless alien, his First is more perceptive that way than most humans of his acquaintance. It certainly wasn't any human member of his crew who was not-freaking-out-because-that-is-an-emotion in his cabin earlier today when he apparently wasn't taking his own safety seriously enough, who redirected his anger into productive channels whenever possible, who gracefully interrupted McCoy's personal questions on the Bridge about his stupid love life…no, Spock wouldn't have dragged him out here just to dump him on Bones for a therapy session, knowing his current frame of mind.

"Scout's honor, Jim. I get it, all right? I'm here, when you're ready. And if you never are, well…I'm still here." An easy shrug accompanies the words, and he feels himself begin to relax slightly, seeing that the sentiment is actually sincere.

Spock must have really done some magic, during that time spent standing vigil outside the Observation Deck doors. The idea that one or both of them would be willing to do that, just stand guard to see he isn't disturbed when he's trying to find a way to absorb and deal with what's happened – that they would willingly do that, despite the vitriol he's hurled at them today?

They probably wouldn't, if they knew everything, what he's done – what he had to do, the things they _all_ had to do, to fall on the right side of that line delineating the "right" four thousand.

"Hey." He blinks, comes back to himself to see McCoy's face almost uncomfortably close to his own. "Whatever you're thinkin', Jim, you're wrong. I can see it in your face – and you're _wrong_. So calm down, and come along to dinner. I'm starving, and Scotty said he finally got the script for vegan chili written into Selector Four. He wants your and our resident picky vegetarian's opinion on it."

Exhaling in a slow, measured breath, he finally nods, and knows he's done the right thing when McCoy's face brightens in relief. They set off as a group the short distance down the corridor and into the main turbolift.

"Deck Eight. You know it's terrible for your health to eat this late, Jim. I've already locked all the complex carbohydrates out of your meal card."

Kirk glares at him, ignoring Spock's sigh from his other side.

"Well I had to entertain myself somehow while you two were jawing in there for Lord knows how long! Downloaded a little remote programming application and learned something new tonight."

"Because deities of the universe forbid you should actually complete your monthly requisition forms on time, Doctor."

The captain smiles, leans against the wall, and closes his eyes.

“I complete them on time! You just have too many addendums from Sciences, is all.”

"It is hardly my fault that your carelessness in filling out requisite paperwork results in having to re-do said paperwork multiple times, Doctor. It would be much more efficient to simply fill out said forms correctly the first time."

"I got better things to do than write in six different places on a four-page req form why I do _too_ need six new petrie dishes for lab twelve because one of your idiot techs dropped the whole kit and caboodle last week during a phaser drill!"

 _Constant in all things_ , indeed. (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) In Conscience of the King, Kirk had Kevin Riley transferred from Communications down to Engineering for his own protection, though he didn't tell Riley the reasoning for the transfer despite Spock pointing out that Riley might see it as a demotion.  
> (2) Hamlet, Shakespeare  
> (3) Much Ado About Nothing, also Shakespeare – entire quote is Friendship is constant in all things, save in the office and affairs of love.


	12. Amok Time

Captain James T. Kirk stared at his personal padd in silence, trying to decide how best to proceed with the information he now held in his hands. These were uncharted waters for both of them; uncharted, and therefore dangerous to navigate without proper guidance. Added to that, the current time restraint: for he had only minutes before he was expected to beam down to Altair VI for the fourth night in succession of being poster boy for a vindictive admiral's overblown sense of self-importance under the thin guise of Starfleet representation. Komack was doing his utmost to make Kirk regret his recent actions, and while the retaliation had not been unexpected, that did not make it any more bearable.

He could already feel a headache coming on, no doubt from lack of oxygen caused by a too-tight dress uniform collar.

And that was before this little gem had come scrolling across his inbox an hour ago.

His door chimed. Glancing at the clock, he allowed himself a small smile despite the severity of the upcoming conversation. Right on the very dot, as usual.

"Come."

The door opened with a hydraulic hiss to admit a tall, somewhat weary-looking figure. Spock still wasn't back up to firing on all thrusters, even after spending three days off-duty and this last on light duty only. Despite frequent visits from McCoy in an effort to re-balance his biochemistry, their combined medical efforts had only produced a very limited effect. It would simply take time, was the inconclusive and highly unhelpful diagnosis he had been given, and no more information was forthcoming about when Kirk might once again have a fully-functional First Officer.

He tried to tell himself that was really the only reason he kept bothering McCoy about the slow progress, to the point that he had been told curtly to mind his own business.

"Reporting as ordered, Captain." Wow, already pulling out the ranking titles and orders, and he hadn't even opened his mouth yet.

Two could play at that game, if that was how Spock wanted to play it. He really wasn't in the mood, but this was no time to lose his grip on the patience he had, up until now, always extended toward this fragile relationship which had inexplicably developed between two very different but uniquely attuned individuals. It was those very differences which made them a combined force to be reckoned with – and it was that strangely inexplicable bond they shared, which had made him a target for a far too sharp-witted Vulcan female, less than a week ago.

"Precisely on schedule, Commander, as always." He received no answer save an almost mechanical nod, and sighed silently, plowing ahead with all the diplomatic subtlety of a type two phaser array in his frustration. "Would you care to explain this to me, Mr. Spock?"

Spock eyed the extended padd with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm, in fact with a lack of any reaction whatsoever. McCoy had even said their First Officer's mental controls were still completely out of alignment from the recent events and none of them should be surprised if he were a little more demonstrative than usual – whatever that meant, for Spock – and so this, this entire lack of anything, was very suggestive. Of what, he still was not quite certain.

"I believe it to be quite self-explanatory, sir. You will find the forms to be completely in order in every respect."

He lowered the padd to the desk without looking at it, and folded his hands across it in a gesture of calmness he didn't feel.

"Mr. Spock, I do not so much as transfer a yeoman across departments on this ship without a clearly documented reason for doing so: emotional, mental, physical, or tactical. You have given me none of these. And I most certainly am not going to simply transfer a senior officer, especially the best First Officer in the 'Fleet, to an entirely different posting, if he is unable to produce sufficient reason to justify that transfer." Spock's minute flinch did not escape his notice. "You are well aware of this, Commander. Did you really think I would simply sign off on this request?"

His First stood still for a moment, clearly cogitating a response; another indication of how still-recovering his thought and physical processes were, to so display indecision. Then the uncertainty vanished like light into a black hole, leaving only detached disinterest behind. Had he not known better, known this Vulcan better than Spock knew himself, he might have believed the façade. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view, he did not.

"I would have thought recent events would have spoken for themselves, sir, in producing sufficient justification." The captain lifted his gaze incredulously from the desk as Spock's calm tone rolled through the room – did he really think that was going to work? "I would of course be able to produce sufficient documentation if that is what you require."

His computer monitor chirped, warning him he had only fifteen minutes remaining to get to the transporter room or Komack would be calling them up in the beginnings of a tantrum to end all tantrums.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the pounding behind his eyes. "You know what, I do not have time to play these games," he said, standing with an uncomfortable tug against his stiff collar. "Your request is denied, Mr. Spock. Dismissed."

Spock's flabbergasted look was almost – _almost_ – amusing, except that this whole thing was more heartbreaking than anything else. He'd never seen uncontrollable events drive a wedge between two people so fast as these had, favorable outcome or no favorable outcome. And he had no idea how to fix this. For once, he couldn't get a read on Spock, and he had no idea how to reach him, wherever he was in that confused state of mind regarding his own self-blame and guilt.

He carefully repressed a shiver at the phantom sense-memory that he hadn't been able to reach him at all, not too long ago.

"Captain," he heard the remonstrance as he bent to turn his computer off, saving power. Rather than inviting a discussion, he only paused and looked up, eyebrow raised. Spock hesitated briefly before plowing ahead with almost reckless abandon. "There is sufficient cause, sir, both mentally and tactically."

He straightened up, arms folded. Komack could wait. "Specify."

Spock shifted minutely. "I have proven myself to be a serious danger to this ship, Captain."

"And that's nothing new, let's be honest, Mr. Spock. It seems to have escaped your remembrance that you have, for one, already committed mutiny against the _Enterprise_ , and been pardoned for the offense. How is this any different, barring medical complications?"

Spock blinked, obviously not expecting that blunt salvo, but quickly parried with a countermove of his own. "In that instance, I did not harm anyone aboard, sir."

"Perhaps not, but nor did you do so intentionally this time," he pointed out calmly. "Assignation or assumption of blame for events beyond someone's control is hardly logical, Commander."

"Sir, you yourself were nearly killed due to my actions – would have been, but for the quick action of Doctor McCoy." And there it was, the heart of the matter; that faint tremor that shook the sentence in the middle was not lost on him. Spock was nowhere near as calm as he was pretending, so very hard, to be. "And but for Vulcan intervention, might have received severe repercussions from Starfleet Command for your actions in attempting to rectify the entire situation."

Dear Lord, if they could just speak plain Standard about the thing like two humans would, not couch everything in these indirect terms, it would make his job so much easier.

"Both statements are entirely true," he agreed candidly, arms still folded. "And neither are grounds for your transfer, as the actions taken in those statements were mine, not yours, and therefore their consequences were mine, not yours. Your logic is flawed, Commander. Your request is denied." He turned to gather up his credit chip and belatedly thought to pocket a headache reliever-filled hypospray Bones had stashed in his dresser last week.

"Then perhaps you will consider the emotional ramifications to be sufficient cause, Captain."

The oddity of the statement made him pause mid-action and turn around – straight into more than six feet of menacing Vulcan muscle mass. He wanted to phaser himself into oblivion when he realized, but he could not stop the instinctive stumble-step backward. Only one fleeting, instinctive second of remembered terror, before reason reasserted itself – but it was enough, and he realized his mistake with a sinking feeling of dismay.

He dropped the hypospray on the desk with a sigh, hanging his head. "Spock…"

The dark eyes regarded him with such open human sadness it broke his heart a little. "You are afraid of me, Captain."

"Stop. You are a science officer, Mr. Spock. As such, you should know the risks in forming premature hypotheses without testing their complete accuracy." God help him, he had to salvage that mistake before he left this ship, or he might have just damaged everything they'd tried to fix in the last few days.

"I believe further tests would…not be beneficial."

He put both hands on the desk, bracing himself for a moment, and shook his head. "Spock, look…" Sighing, he glanced up, then straightened, adjusting his tunic. "Perhaps there is some truth in what you said." He shrugged, face flushing slightly. "I am only human, and as such I do not have the impulse or reflex control which comes easily to a Vulcan. It's unfair to expect that of me, as it is unfair of me to expect human expression of you."

Spock looked away, shifting his weight slightly. He took that as encouragement, or at least not discouragement. "Fear is a response to a stimulus, nothing more, Commander. I cannot fully control that instinct, not without repeated desensitization to it, nor can I control my mind's reflexive response to a memory. This _doesn't_ indicate that I expect that memory to repeat itself in real life."

"That does not alter the fact that this fear exists, even as a memory."

He took a step into his First Officer’s personal space, nearly toe to toe with this stubborn Vulcan he dares call friend. "Are we talking about my fear or yours, Mr. Spock?" he asked quietly.

Spock's face lost what little color it had, though his expression never changed. Oddly enough, he did not deny the situation as being unVulcan – merely that it existed at all. "You are mistaken, Captain."

"Am I?" he challenged. "Because I think you're requesting a transfer because of the exact same thing you just accused me of. You're afraid of it happening again, of what you might do in such a situation if confronted with it again. You're afraid of losing control like that, and harming a member of this crew, possibly killing them. Killing _me_ , even."

Spock's lips tightened. Kirk finally turned and walked a few steps away, shaking his head. A rueful, almost bitter laugh sounded in the stillness. "Do you really think you are the only one having nightmares about it, Spock?" he finally asked, half-turning to look at the figure now frozen by his desk. "That you're the only one trying to figure out how to move on, from here?"

"I am attempting to do so," Spock said, nearly in a whisper, indicating the padd on his desk with an almost human desperation.

He felt a wave of anger so intensely human he knew if he got near his First then it might be damaging to a touch-telepaths shattered mental shields. "And I am attempting to run the Federation's flagship, Mr. Spock," he replied coldly. "I will not leave her without a First and Chief Science Officer due to personal conflict between her two senior officers. Your request is denied."

His communicator was blipping in accusation at him now, a red light flashing angrily in the corner of the screen, indicating that a very, very angry Admiral Komack was wanting to know why his new favorite pet was not on the planet at this moment, ready for parading around a crowded room full of officials and their escorts.

"Captain." Spock's voice was almost shaking now, whether in desperation or exhaustion or something else, he didn't know. He looked up from the communicator, eyes still flashing. His First swallowed harshly, then straightened into stiff attention. "Sir, I do not wish to remain on this ship."

He shoved the instrument in his pocket and strode back across the room, reining in his anger for the sake of the being in front of him. Then he stopped in front of his First, hands loosely fisted at his sides for control.

"Look me in the eye, and say that again," he ordered quietly, deadly. Calling the bluff for what it was; Spock had never been able to lie to him, not convincingly.

But now? His second in command stared him down with a disturbingly cold expression, so reminiscent of the other full-blooded Vulcans he'd just met that it sent a chill down his spine.

"I do not wish to remain on the Enterprise, _Captain_."

For a moment he stared at his First in complete consternation, anger extinguished by the chill of fear. But he was out of time to continue this, for now.

"Your wishes are duly noted, Commander. _Dismissed_ ," he snapped, and then almost – not quite, but almost – felt bad for doing it when Spock inclined his head, and left the room as silently as he had entered.

* * *

"I swear, he was totally and one hundred percent dead serious, Bones, cold as ice. I've never seen him like that, not with me."

McCoy's longsuffering pat on the shoulder was followed by the offer of a shot glass full of something he hoped was better-tasting than Scotty's last attempt at programming a replication script for watermelon vodka into the meal selectors.

"You do realize he's still totally off-kilter from the whole thing, right, Jim? It'd be like a human tryin' to come down off of LSD and a high fever and a nasty divorce, all at the same time."

He choked as the drink burned worse than the spicy vegetable soup they'd served at the last inauguration dinner tonight. "This is terrible, Doctor. Unless it was purely medicinal, in which case I decline a second dose."

"Good for what ails you, my grandmomma always said. Granted, she said that 'bout mustard-plasters and God knows what other nonsense from the Old Days, but this stuff will at least make you forget about that migraine you got goin' on, _and_ it doesn’t interfere with your headache medication." McCoy toasted him with his own glass. "Are you done being Komack's captain-on-a-leash now?"

Kirk glared at the physician, tugging at the collar of his dress uniform, wilted now but still uncomfortably tight. "We have the closing ceremonies tomorrow morning, then we should be home free. Does Spock have any idea how many hoops I've had to jump through because of this little detour of his, and T'Pau ticking Komack off so badly?"

"I dunno." The doctor shrugged, face pensive. "I would imagine so, because he's been asking about you every night, but it's hard to tell with him. Pitched a fit about not being certified fit for active duty, I can tell you that much. I think he was going to try and at least buffer between you."

"And that's exactly why I said keep him on the ship by any means possible. Komack's a pompous jackass, under no circumstances does he need to be broadcasting his self-centered idiocy around a recovering telepath." McCoy regarded him fondly as he struggled against the jacket's collar again, finally snapping the eyelet hooks holding his throat prisoner. "What am I supposed to do, Bones? If he really wants to transfer…I can't just keep him here, miserable." He looked down at his hands, shaking his head. "I can't read him right now. Maybe I never could."

McCoy tossed back the last of his 'medicinal' brandy and set the glass down with a derisive snort. "With respect, Captain, you're an idiot."

Kirk looked highly affronted.

"You _are_. Jim, you were always the only one who _could_ read him. You're both just workin' through your baggage right now in your own ways. Not the most healthy ways, but you are."

"He's not working through anything, he's trying to run!"

"Or maybe he's just trying to ask for help and doesn't know how," the doctor ventured mildly. "You can hardly call the kettle black on that one, you know."

"But –"

"Jim. If he really wanted to leave, he could go over your head to the Admiralty, he could go to the VSA and ask for a posting there and because they're Federation Founders he'd be given priority over an exploratory starship, or he could just _resign,_ which doesn't require your approval or notification. All of which would be easier than requesting your signature on a transfer request like that."

Kirk blinked slowly. "You're right."

"Of course I am." McCoy gestured vaguely in the direction of the corridor. "So y'all need to – speak of the devil." The door separating the joined bathroom from the First Officer's cabin had opened suddenly, admitting the being in question. Spock halted, wide-eyed, upon seeing Kirk was not alone. The doctor sighed, snatching the bottle and glasses back from the table. He gestured vaguely between them both as he backed out of the room. "I'm going, I'm going. You two, kiss and make up, will you? Jim, take your headache pill."

The door slid shut behind him, leaving the two of them blinking after it in some consternation.

"He means well," Kirk offered at last, extending the first olive branch.

"That is debatable," was the dubious reply, and he smiled, though the gesture was tight with exhaustion.

"Sit down, Spock."

"I would prefer to stand, sir."

"And I'd prefer you quit tossing my title in every third word today, but we don't always get what we want. _Sit_. Please."

Spock sat, uncomfortably stiff, keeping the desk safely between them.

Kirk folded his hands again on the desk, glancing briefly down at the padd sitting there. "Mr. Spock, I've been re-evaluating your request for transfer," he said slowly.

Spock's eyes darted to the document in an almost surprised motion before they faded into perfect calm – too perfect. "Yes, sir?"

"And I have come to the conclusion I was too hasty in my earlier assessment," he breezed onward, waving a careless hand toward the padd in question. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to transfer, Commander. And if that is your preference, well. Who am I to stand in the way of a man's wishes or career choices?"

Spock's eyes widened. _Bingo_.

"So, have you given thought to which vessel you would prefer to transfer, if given the choice?" he asked conversationally, opening up the document on the padd in question and making a show of scanning it for details.

Spock was hilariously silent, obviously fumbling to come up with an answer.

"Because I know for a fact that Barclay on the _Plutarch_ would kill to have a Vulcan science officer. I would be happy to put in a good word for you if you like." He glanced up, stylus paused, just in time to see clear, utter panic be hastily squirreled away behind a calm Vulcan mask. "Or if you would prefer a more diversified vessel, the _Lusitania_ would be an excellent choice. Garcia is a hard captain, I've heard, but the crew is at least 40% non-human."

"I…had not given the matter such thought, yet. Captain."

"Well, take a minute to think about it and let me know so I can get the communiques sent off before we leave Altair VI. Did you want to leave the ship here, by the way, or simply rotate out with the next rotation at Starbase Alpha Ceti Four?"

Spock was beginning to look a little like a cornered animal. Kirk raised an eyebrow, feigning impatience. "It does take time to get this paperwork shoved through, you know, Commander. I have to attach an addendum to your request with my recommendations and suggested future postings."

His First cleared his throat. "I…departing now, on Altair VI, would not be conducive to concluding my work in the laboratories aboard the _Enterprise_."

"Starbase AC-4 it is, then," he said cheerfully, making a note in the margin of the report. Spock's eyes flicked wildly from the padd to the door and back again, a strangely nervous tic. "That should give you two weeks to wrap up any final projects you need to, so your replacement can start afresh with your departments."

Obviously giving up on speech for the moment, Spock only made a faint noise of assent.

"You should probably consider assigning temporary heads to the science labs, as it may take a bit for the new Science Officer to acclimate to such a large starship," he continued thoughtfully, tapping the stylus against his chin. "You could also do the same with a temporary liaison to Medical, since you work so integrally with them."

"Aye, sir." The words were so quiet he almost didn't hear them, gathering steam as he was.

"You should also begin training Mr. Chekov on the more intricate technicalities of the Science Station; I would hate to be caught off-guard without a First or CSO on the Bridge in the middle of a Red Alert," he mused, scribbling a signature on a preliminary document.

"…Aye, sir."

"You could also send me a list of any personnel you recommend for transfer or promotion along with you, since you won't be here for crew evals next month."

Spock swallowed, and nodded. Kirk paused with the stylus held over the final signature line.

"Or," he continued, eyes fastened on his First's pale face, "you could stop trying to play this game with me, Spock. You should know better than to bluff against me, of all people."

Spock's eyes narrowed for a moment in what looked like a reassuringly human flash of irritation that did his heart good, before the look gave way to one of sheer relief, as the tension bled slowly from his First's posture before his very eyes.

"Commander," he said clearly, erasing the report and turning the padd off, "I require you here, aboard the _Enterprise_. And what is almost more important…" He leaned back in the chair, absently fiddling with the stylus, before finally continuing. " _I_ need you here, Spock."

A quick glance up revealed his XO returning the look, silently evaluating his sincerity. "I have no desire to command this ship with another being standing where you should," he said simply. "If that means we have to work harder at that during this particular hurdle than at other times, then so be it. If that means you take a leave of absence to recover, we will deal with it. If that means you and I lock ourselves in this room until we _fix this_ , I will make whatever excuse to Komack I have to tomorrow – but I will not have things any other way without a fight you are not likely to win. Am I clear?"

Spock's lips twitch. "Quite clear, sir."

"Good." He tossed the stylus down on the desk. "Then unless you _want_ to lock yourself in here with an emotional human, get up there and take over my Bridge, Science Officer. You've just been reinstated for full duty, effective immediately."

"Yes, Captain." Spock stood, tugging at the hem of his tunic, but looked more like himself than he had for days now. Kirk turned to flick on the computer, intending to finish up the day's paperwork before crashing for a few hours.

"Jim."

He glanced up in pleased surprise. "Yes?"

"If I am reinstated for duty, I should prefer to be included in the landing party tomorrow morning, for the closing ceremonies."

He snorted. "It's a landing party of one, Spock. I'm not letting Komack harass anyone else aboard this ship."

"I am aware." A pointed look his direction. "I am also aware that you have been bearing the full brunt of the admiral's ire at my clan for the past four solar days. Perhaps my appearance may mitigate that reaction."

He shrugged, though he was secretly warmed by the gesture. "It's your funeral, Spock. Come if you'd like."

"As you said, sir. I would not have it any other way."

He smiled, and silently went back to his computer screen; he would not take advantage of Spock's still-recovering emotional and mental state by embarrassing him further. They had made progress today, but fragile progress; he could not risk damaging that.

The door opened across the room, and a tolerant Vulcan sigh drifted back toward him.

"Doctor, your eavesdropping would have been far more effective had you made your escape prior to my exit."

"What're you gonna do, throw a soup bowl at me?"

He managed to hide his laugh behind the screen; obviously McCoy had no such qualms about taking advantage. At some point in this bizarre week, the scales of his XOs' relationship had swung in a new direction – the doctor's saving his life on Vulcan most likely having something to do with that – and he couldn't decide if the change was oddly endearing or just plain frightening.

His inbox finally came up on the screen, and he saw to his surprise that his entire day's backlog of paperwork had already been completed and signed off on, with the exception of two reports which required a personal signature from someone with his level one clearance. Forty-seven reports he now didn't have to do after the Day From Admiralty Hell, all read and signed by someone from Science or Medical.

The bickering in the corridor outside escalated suddenly, and something thudded against the wall.

Yes, he was going to go with _frightening_. God help them all.


	13. The Alternative Factor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N, for those who have no clue what this episode was about: While this has to be one of the most cringe-worthy episodes ever scripted and special-effected, there are redeeming moments and you definitely should not skip it. 
> 
> Spock's "Why you mad" face when telling their new acquaintance he's only made the logical conclusion the man's a liar is hilarious, and there's a beautiful little conversation between Kirk and Spock in a briefing room where they talk through the mission. The dialogue's a little clunky at times but there's a really lovely informality in the exchange that speaks a lot about their relationship development in this early first season. 
> 
> This was one of the sadly few TOS episodes to really focus on the issue of racism and xenophobia, and one of the even fewer to feature a female command officer of color, Lieutenant Masters. Why she was wearing Science Blue instead of Engineering Red is anyone's guess, lol.

For nearly every department aboard the Federation starship _Enterprise_ , it had been an excruciatingly long day.

The widespread magnetic disturbances, though brief, had been so intense and so severe as to damage nearly every system aboard. From the sonic showers to the medical scanners to their navigational computer, everything on board was malfunctioning in some way, and Lieutenant Uhura had already stayed on the Bridge a full five hours past alpha shift's turnover in an attempt to properly field and distribute the damage reports and calls which were coming in from all parts of the ship.

While they had coped with such widespread malfunctions a time or two before, and while prioritizing procedures were already in place for such catastrophic situations aboard Federation vessels, with Engineer Scott on a brief shore leave at Starbase Sixteen attending a conference discussing the recent discoveries in – ironically enough – matter/antimatter mixing and chamber development, and with Engineering having been damaged in the electrical fire this afternoon, the _Enterprise_ and her competent crew were already understaffed and overworked.

Add to that, restoring a decaying orbit with only two dilithium crystals, and having to come up with an explanation to Starfleet Command as to why their remaining two had been blown into (literally) the next universe in order to prevent the "invasion" which had been talked of, had taken them precious hours they did not have to spare. It was well into ship's night before her Captain, First Officer, Assistant Chief Engineer, or indeed any ranking officer even paused for a break, much less any rest.

And then they received the news, that due to the widespread starship evacuation of the surrounding systems, their previously scheduled shore leave would be postponed for another month, minimum estimation; and they needed to make all haste to the Cygentian system to take over the nebula-charting duties which the _Victoriana_ had dropped in her haste to leave the area.

Being pulled off exploratory duty for a job a first-trimester cadet could perform singlehandedly in any well-equipped shuttlecraft was not flattering, nor was the shore leave news a welcome reward for playing the bait in the invasion game they'd just concluded. The _Enterprise_ 's captain glared moodily at the table viewer for a few moments after the screen had faded to black, as if his expression alone might convey over so many lightyears to an entirely uncaring audience, his frustration with their command decisions.

"Well, that's just _dandy_ ," his CMO growled testily from his left, arms folded across a stained scrub shirt. The physician had been present at the vid-conference primarily because Spock was so buried in Engineering he couldn't be extricated in time, and with Scotty absent McCoy was next ranking officer in that chain of command. Right about now, he was heartily regretting that title of Lieutenant-Commander and all the hullabaloo it entailed.

"Bones…" Kirk sighed, scrubbing both hands over his face. Lieutenant Masters covered a smile with a less disrespectful yawn, and inclined her head in a wordless question at the door, to which he waved a hand in dismissal; after today, none of them actually cared or needed to stand on formality. She hurried from the room, already composing notes on her datapadd for Engineering. "Status of Sickbay, Doctor?" he continued, hoping to head off the tirade which looked to be building.

"Same as when I got here," McCoy retorted tartly. "Don't try to cut me off, _Captain_. You look like you've been hit by a hovercraft, and that's after one day of this. They're talkin' two more weeks of just us coverin' this entire half of the quadrant. That's not fair, and you darn well know it."

"What exactly would you have me do about it, Doctor?" he asked wearily. It was true, they would be completely exhausted at the end of that period, but there was little at the moment he could do to change the order. Moments like this showed him anew just how fortunate he was as captain, to be gifted the First Officer he was. He and McCoy's volatile natures would never be a good combination for command, not without the calming addition of Spock's third – like fire and wind instead of fire and water. "We have more important things to think about right now. Masters and Granger seem to be all right, what about Lieutenant Corsina?"

"He's fine. Told him he needs to take a couple more self-defense classes with Sulu, and he agreed with me." Kirk nodded in assent. "He'll think twice before letting someone without clearance that close to a transporter console again."

"Good. Anything else to report, then, Doctor?"

McCoy glanced toward the door as if afraid of being overheard. Kirk raised an eyebrow. "Out with it, Bones. If this is about my doubting you earlier today, I already apologized for that – you're not going to hold it over my head, I hope?"

"It's not that, Captain." Kirk frowned; if he was still using titles, this was serious ship's business, not personal. "It's probably nothing, but I'm still duty-bound as Chief Medical Officer to always pass these along for your notation. You have to read and initial the report."

" _It_ being…ah." He was handed a medical padd, one with heavy encryption built into the hardware; must be the official medical logs, then. A report was already pulled up on the screen, but it was not a medical one. "This is a security report, Doctor."

"It is. If there's a medical or safety concern at any time by any member of the crew, it's submitted as a security report and flagged as medical, automatically forwarded to my inbox. Can be submitted anonymously if needed, though that's never been necessary on this ship. Sometimes it's nothing, but sometimes it's been a good indication a crewman's got some stuff goin' on we need to know about, or there was an issue on a mission I should know about which got glossed over, consciously or unconsciously, in the official logs – once it even caught some gender bigotry going on that the ensign in question never would have reported on her own. Usually it's only official Security members who submit them, and that's what this one is, a standard post-mission report in addition to the official logs submitted by you and Commander Spock."

Kirk's eyes widened as he read, skimming at first and then going back to re-read a few lines. "And you put any credence in this?" he finally asked, turning an incredulous look up at his calm CMO.

"Mm, yeah, I do, actually. And that's why I'm callin' it to your attention. Maybe you need to have a chat with him, because he might not be doing as well as he says. God knows it's been a rough couple of months."

The captain's lips tightened in a frown of repressed memories. It had indeed been a hellish last few missions, only the last of which had been the one culminating in the Organian Peace Treaty. Perhaps Spock wasn't doing as well as he claimed, after being subjected to the Klingons' neural neutralizer. No doubt, he would certainly never admit that fact without being confronted with evidence, and possibly not even then.

"Granted, he's always been a little scary when he wants to be where you're concerned, but if one of those clueless young fools in Ops is saying he was 'frightened for their prisoner's safety,' then we might have a sliiiiight problem."

"Where do you think you're going? I have, _literally_ , a hundred other things do right now, Bones."

"Tough. I'm a doctor, not a marriage counselor. Go fix your Vulcan."

" _Bones_!"

* * *

After searching through the whole of Engineering, getting distracted by various small fires being put out (literally and figuratively) throughout the entire section, he finally located his First Officer in a small access room on D Deck, where he and a quad of weary-looking engineers in varying stages of dis-uniform were busy taking apart communications motherboards.

He took one look at the almost frightening number of parts and circuits scattered about the room in tiny piles of electronic debris, and dismissed the sloppy appearance of his men, who were scrambling to pull themselves together into some semblance of attention. It was thirty-eight degrees centigrade in here at least, there was every reason to not be wearing the scarlet over-tunic, besides the fact that the article of standard-issue clothing tore with every slight provocation.

The captain waved them off with a quick gesture, which returned him a look of exhausted relief. Naturally, Spock was still in full double long-sleeves, and looking like he rather enjoyed the blistering temperature, though he could tell from the tightness around his First's eyes and the fact that Spock did not immediately get up upon his entrance, that the Vulcan was on his last nerve as well from tension.

"Relax, gentlemen, I'm just here for a quick report and then I need to borrow Mr. Spock for a while." He noted with amusement the furtive glances of gratitude exchanged between the young engineers at his words; he suspected it was more from the news that he was extricating their taskmaster than the knowledge that the captain wasn't there to critique their work. No doubt Spock had been pushing them to their limit, as well he should; it was one of his best qualities as a leader.

Spock finally crawled out completely from under the motherboard he had been tinkering with and stood, fastidiously tugging at his tunic before standing at attention to report. "Captain. I would most strongly suggest upon Mr. Scott's return that you place him in a series of refresher courses as to the proper method of wiring, soldering, and programming relays. Our work here has been seriously hampered by what Mr. Riley informs me is called _creative engineering artistry_." The derision in the tone clearly showed what their CSO thought of both the term and its results, and Kirk saw with amusement that Riley was rapidly turning the color of his discarded uniform tunic. "I can give you no estimated time of completion at the current moment based upon this unfortunate complication."

He tapped a finger against his lips, processing this, and then turned to the fidgeting Engineering squad. That explained the looks; he'd been on the receiving end of a Vulcan hissy fit, and it wasn't pleasant, he'd give them that. "Gentlemen, are you familiar with Mr. Scott's…creative methods, of meeting the overly high expectations I have of him, often exceeding the bounds of what is considered standard Starfleet methods of starship operation?" he asked, and with the inquiry gently prodded his First to remember the stakes he often asked of their creative Chief Engineer.

"Uh."

Riley elbowed the stuttering ensign in the stomach and straightened. "Yes, Captain. I was with him when he rewired Communications top to bottom, sir, that's how I got my interest in it. I can do this, it will just take time if you want it done to previous standard."

"I wondered what you were doing, tinkering down here instead of on the Bridge, Lieutenant. All right then, Mr. Riley, you are in charge until Mr. Spock returns; I have need of him right now. I expect you to have this project completed in the same amount of time Mr. Scott would, if you seem to know so much about his, let's say, _creative licenses_ taken with my ship." Riley's eyes widened. Kirk smiled, clapping the young man on the shoulder. "I require 100% system restoration by tomorrow morning and _plausible deniability_ , Lieutenant, nothing more. Am I understood?"

"Aye, sir. I could use another two engineers, sir."

"Couldn't we all, Mr. Riley," he returned, not without humor. "See if you can borrow anyone from Medical, they're the only area under control right now. Some of McCoy's nurses have a programming or engineering background."

"Aye, sir."

"Mr. Spock, you're with me."

He turned and left the tiny room, glad when the cooler air of the corridor outside hit his face but regretting the seeping feeling of physical relief which drained away the last reserves of energy which had been fueling the last few hours. Exhaustion tugged at his body, accentuating a pounding headache, but he resolutely pushed it away despite the lateness of the hour; there was still much work to be done.

"Engineering report?" he murmured, as the turbolift doors opened.

"Lieutenant Masters reported to me before finally retiring for the night twenty minutes ago. All life support and medical systems are now functioning within normal parameters; this was the benchmark we had set in her departments for tonight's efforts."

He leaned against the wall of the lift, eyes closed. "Good work. Go on, Mr. Spock, I'm listening."

"The dilithium crystals have been re-aligned and we are operating at optimal efficiency given their current state. I would recommend all speed to Space Station Alpha Cygnus, however, to replace the two which were lost, as we will never reach speeds higher than Warp One without them, and we will certainly have no defensive capabilities should we encounter hostile forces."

"I agree. Starfleet won't be happy with me but I'll take the heat and try to swing a day or two of shore leave while we're there, the crew certainly deserves it. What about the shipwide repairs?"

"Systems have been categorized systematically by degrees of urgency, as per normal procedure, and are proceeding ahead of projected time frames. I would estimate all essential ship's functions 100% restored in twenty-four hours or less, depending upon crew stamina, with non-essential systems to follow."

"Don't burn anyone out; we don't have anything urgent waiting on us." He rubbed a hand over his face, swaying slightly as his equilibrium informed him he really needed to get some sleep, or at least sit down for a few minutes.

"Aye, sir."

"Anything else?"

Silence, pointed enough that he finally opened his eyes and lifted his head from his hand, blinking away the gray haze which threatened to tow him under in its beckoning promise of peaceful oblivion. "Spock?"

"Sir, perhaps you should follow your own directive."

He straightened on the instant, trying his best to look indignant. "I am perfectly fine, Mr. Spock, thank you."

"Captain. You have yet to give the lift a destination."

He stared blankly for a moment, and then directed his irritation at the control panel so that it did not fall upon his very undeserving XO.

"Bridge," he muttered, twisting the directional handle with much more force than was warranted. If he was hanging onto it for support as well, hopefully that didn't show.

"Computer, override. Voice authorization Spock, First Officer. Deck Five."

Arms folded, he turned slowly on one heel with a small grinding squeak, and fixed his subordinate with a look that could flash-freeze plasma. Spock returned it in a surprisingly human glare of stubborn defiance.

"Sir, it is nearly 0200 hours, and you are back on duty at 0800. The ship will survive for six hours without its captain's amateur engineering attempts."

And _there_ was the sarcasm, too. "I beg your pardon?"

Spock exhaled slowly in what looked like an obvious prayer for patience, or maybe for control, to whatever gods Vulcans probably didn't think it logical to believe in. "Captain. It has been…a particularly trying day. For the entirety of the crew. I believe all involved would benefit from, I believe the human term is, 'some space.'"

He was about to respond to that volley of Vulcan snark when the lift suddenly gave a particularly hair-raising screech and ground to a halt, gifting them one last spine-lurching jolt before dying completely.

Picking himself up off the ground along with the remains of his dignity, he glared at his First, who was looking at the dead control panel in consternation.

"You were saying, about all systems being repaired ahead of schedule?" he asked dryly.

Spock spared him a withering look over one tense shoulder, and neatly pried the cover off the panel with the snap of broken screws. Not so much as a spark greeted him, not a good sign, and when he cautiously attempted to detach a few wires, absolutely nothing happened – the lift had not just malfunctioned, it had lost navigational and computer power entirely, including the emergency backup. They were fortunate that the lights were tied into shipwide lighting systems, or they would have lost those too. As it stood, they had gone alarmingly dim, as if steadily draining of power themselves; he hoped they would not go out completely, but it seemed a possibility.

"Not how I planned to spend my evening. Morning. Whatever it is, now." Kirk sighed, exhaustion driven back yet again under adrenaline. He glanced up at the magnetic hatch in the ceiling, a good foot over his head. "That's usually tied into the systems too, is it fused shut?"

Spock was already reaching for it, long fingers stretching to first push against the panel, then feel around the edge. "Apparently. Not the most intelligent design feature, as I have pointed out during inspections more than once."

"You are so merciless with us poor pathetic humans when you're tired, you know that?" He slid down the wall with a sigh, cursing the exhaustion-induced lack of tact which always indicated his brain-to-mouth filter was rapidly losing functionality.

Spock's raised eyebrows as he surprisingly slid to a mirroring position, were more amused than annoyed. "This, from the man who walked into a bulkhead in Engineering on our way out?"

His laugh sounded half-drunk from exhaustion, in the stillness of the lift; the oddity of the utter silence, without even the hum of background power, was quite strange. "I never pretended to be anything other than the pathetic human I am, Commander."

Spock's half-smile in the dimming light seemed more relaxed than before, but that could just be his imagination.

"How long, do you think, before someone notices we're stuck?"

"Unfortunately, it may be some time. Most of the internal sensors have been intentionally taken offline while Communications is being recalibrated, and while someone may wish to use the main turbolift, there are others which can be re-routed around a blockage and still not send up an error message to main Engineering until higher priority queues have been cared for. Lieutenant-Commander Scott would have noticed something amiss due to his intense scrutiny of all reports, minor or otherwise; however, in his absence, only the highest priority damage reports are currently being run. But at the very least, your absence from alpha shift at 0800 hours will be noted, and we will soon be located using the _Enterprise_ 's bio-signature scanner."

"We could be here all night?!"

"It is likely."

He groaned, resisting the urge to just curl up on the floor and go to sleep right there, hang his precious dignity. At this point he could probably sleep standing up, the bone-deep exhaustion which comes of mental and physical strain tugging relentlessly at him, no doubt exacerbated by his inter-universal travel. Who knew what that had done to his systems, though McCoy said his readings all showed as perfectly normal.

"Wish I'd eaten dinner now," he muttered, more to fill the ghastly silence than anything else.

He could see Spock's eyebrow-frown from a meter away. "You were on the planet below during ship's midday meal also, Captain."

No wonder he felt like passing out a couple times this evening after standing up too fast from under a console in Environmental Control. "Hm, you're right."

"Captain, seeing to the well-being of your crew includes your own."

"Acknowledged, Mr. Spock. I just had other things on my mind, you know." Like condemning an innocent man to a life in eternity by himself, so to speak – literally, his worst nightmare, and he'd sentenced a man to it today without a second thought other than the safety of his ship. He'd gotten a taste of that strange anti-world, just a glimpse, and it had felt so wrong; to imagine being trapped in one by himself, alone, forever…he really had no desire to sleep, perchance to dream, on that tonight.

Spock was looking at him strangely.

"Just thinking about Lazarus, Spock," he remarked, settling down into a more comfortable position. He rubbed wearily at his temples. "Getting a glimpse of that anti-matter universe…it was strange. I would hate to be marooned there, forever – yet I condemned a man to that, for eternity today."

"It was by his own choice, Captain. And had you not done so, our own world might have been forfeit."

"Yes, I know. But it's still haunting me, a little."

Spock's eyes lit with poorly-concealed scientific curiosity. "What was it like, Captain?"

"What, the anti-universe?"

Spock nodded.

"Mm, well…the transition into it was…nauseating, for one. It was like a bad transporter trip, you know, one where the pattern buffer is becoming corrupted and you barely make it back in one piece. Dizzying, more than the brain can really comprehend, I think. But then it all just faded into what at first looked like our universe. But…darker, it was all much darker. Inverted, I suppose you would call it, which makes a kind of sense. The sky was darker, the atmosphere felt…darker, I don't know how else to describe it. It made my skin crawl, Spock." He shivered, remembering the sense of _wrong_ , of not belonging, that had fairly enveloped him at the first touch of the anti-environment.

Spock's features had gone from scientifically curious to pinched with tension. "You are fortunate the journey itself did you no harm," he said flatly.

"I suppose. It's not an experience I would want to repeat." He shrugged, though watching carefully for a reaction. "And it worked out for the best."

"Through no fault of the being Lazarus, or any efforts of ours," was the dark response.

"What's this about, Spock?" he inquired suddenly, leaning forward in the dim light. "There was no harm done, and –"

"And what, Captain?" He was startled to be interrupted, because that was just _not done_ by such a polite species, but Spock apparently was on a roll because it didn't stop there. "And if there had been no such universal reversion possible? What would you have done then? If there had been no dilithium crystals in that other universe, waiting to be used in the transport? If the Lazarus of the other universe had not been in that anti-universe, waiting, and you had been the only being there when you arrived – what then?"

He swallowed. "Then I would probably have gone as mad as he did," he said quietly. "Don't think I haven't already thought it through too, Spock. You're not the only one who got scared to death, just a little."

He waited for the immediate, automatic denial, the expected rejection of the emotion as unVulcan –

But it never came.

He sighed, and moved closer across the divide between them in the small space, finally settling into place beside his silent First.

"That is the risk we take in this business, you know."

"I am aware," was the dry reply, almost icy in its sarcasm.

"Are you, though?" he asked softly. "Or did you just become very, very acutely aware, _today_ , of just what that risk really could be?"

Spock's eyes flicked sideways in the half-light, the movement so rapid in its surprise that he knew he'd hit a nerve.

He shrugged, unrepentant. "You can't run from me here, Spock. And you should know better than to try to hide. Why do you feel the need to?"

His First stared woodenly at the side of the lift, eyes dark in reflection against the tritanium. "Sir, I am _Vulcan_ ," he finally spoke, almost desperately.

Kirk sat back, arms resting across his updrawn knees, and nodded. "Fair enough," he replied simply, and closed his eyes.

A moment later, they opened again, as he felt an incredulous stare fairly boring hold in his head.

"What?"

"You are not going to continue?"

"Continue what, insulting your heritage by trying to force an emotional display from you, Mr. Spock? That's Bones's territory, not mine." He closed his eyes again, half-smiling into the darkness.

He heard a faint noise of bemusement, before silence fell once more.

"Besides, I have a signed report from one of our Security team today, saying you quite calmly and _logically_ informed Lazarus he would be receiving a very personal demonstration of that Vulcan warrior heritage, if I didn't make it back from his parallel universe unharmed, so, you know. Semantics."

The frigid silence which followed that salvo was just what he needed in which to take a very satisfying, very well-deserved nap.


	14. Court Martial

To the doctor’s complete and utter shock, Spock actually accepts his only half-serious invitation to beam back down to the 'Base for dinner and a drink, after the formalities are concluded and the captain has unaccountably disappeared with his prosecution, destination unknown.

 _Then again, it's kind of been a day for miracles_ , he thinks with a mental shrug as they materialize in Starbase Eleven's primary transporter relay station. It isn't the smoothest transport, and he makes a mental note to send Engineering a memo on the subject asap (and maybe sweet-talk Lieutenant Masters into coming to get them with a shuttle, because he really could do without that stomach-lurching pattern buffer on the return trip). With Scotty still on his way to rendezvous here with them at the 'Base, repairs are taking longer than they normally would under their Chief Engineer's expert direction.

Even Spock looks a little peaked after they step off the platform, though that could just be residual tension after this day from hell. _Two_ days from hell, because he's already seen from his med-scanners that their loyal First Officer was up all night long running diagnostics on the _Enterprise_ computers in a desperate attempt to find something, _anything_ , wrong with them.

They blend well enough into the crowd of Starfleet uniforms, and are seated in short order on a small café's patio along an artificial pond, upon which swim what he can only guess are supposed to be robotic replicas of Terran swans. The whole thing is a little cheesy, and he rolls his eyes as he presses the button to open the menu, making sure there are several vegetarian options on it before they get too comfortable.

Spock gives the holographic photos and descriptions a perfunctory scan, unimpressed with the tri-D technology, and then his gaze wanders aimlessly, fingers steepled before him. McCoy glances up in time to see a look of unguarded weariness cross the thin features, and he frowns.

"Y'okay, Spock?" he asks, with genuine concern. Their First's illogical and obviously biased testimony today was basically the Vulcan equivalent of wearing an _I heart Jim Kirk_ t-shirt; McCoy has more kindness (and sense) than to truly poke at him tonight.

Spock seems to come out of whatever thought-trance he is in with a small start, and immediately straightens in his chair. "Quite, doctor," he answers placidly, picking the menu back up and signaling for their server, a six-armed being of a species McCoy isn't entirely familiar with; possibly a half-Fenchurian and another species.

They place their orders, oddly similar salads and, in the doctor's case, a locally-recommended alcoholic beverage, and then return to looking at the scenery around them.

"Y'know, Jim may still be in a sort of euphoric shock, but he's so grateful to you he probably just can't figure out how to say it," he ventures after a moment, fiddling with the ornately carved napkin ring. Its intricate silver carvings are oddly incongruous with the café's casual surroundings.

Spock flicks a glance at him, looking vaguely amused. "I was not concerned with such things, Doctor."

"Yeah, well. He can be an idiot sometimes, runnin' off like that without so much as a thank you," he mumbles, still a little annoyed.

Spock's lips twitch, and he can see the tension lessening slightly in the Vulcan's stiff posture. It's a rare honor, this being witness to just a little more relaxed, a little less full Vulcan, and he doesn't take it lightly, despite the fact that their interactions are legendary among the crew for their…verbal creativity.

"While your anger on my behalf is flattering, Doctor, I assure you it is unnecessary."

"That's as may be. Still…"

Spock's personal data-padd is pushed across the table's expanse toward him – and he sees a brief text-message from the captain on the screen. The scant few lines are obviously rushed, but at least the man had the decency to acknowledge his First's contributions before running off with his prosecuting attorney, old 'friend' or not.

"Hmph." He glances up as their drinks and salads arrive and thanks the server, who gives them a sharp-toothed smile and rushes off to another table, additional glasses remaining in two hands. "I still dunno how you managed to…what the – Spock, what's this?"

He has accidentally clicked the wrong button on the padd and now stares at an official-looking Starfleet document. Seeing exactly which form it is, his eyes widen and he holds up the padd in one hand, gesticulating wildly with the other.

Spock's eyebrow rises over top a forkful of vegetables, but he says nothing.

"Is this…?"

"Really, Doctor. Surely even your tenuous observational skills can draw the obvious conclusion."

He drops the padd back to the table, shaking his head, and picks up his drink with an unsteady hand. "Does Jim know about this?"

Spock looks mighty shifty, especially for him. "I…may have obliquely referenced the possibility."

"Meaning _no_ , he doesn't really, but he overheard you trying to blackmail someone on the Board?"

Spock's ears turn a weird shade of jade, and he promptly fills his mouth with salad.

McCoy grins, shoving the padd back across the table, and returns to his own meal. "He would not be happy, Mr. Spock."

"His opinion was not a consideration, Doctor. Nor is yours."

"Don't you sass me, I'm on your side here. Pass the dressing, would you?"

Spock does so in stony silence, and for a moment he lets the proverbial dust settle. Then, venturing slowly back into the fray, he reaches across the table and pokes the bear – literally, with an unused spoon.

"Hey. I think you should tell him now, though. Might make him feel better about the whole thing to know he had solidarity at least."

Spock spares him a withering look, and removes the spoon from his hand, depositing it out of reach on his own side of the table. _Killjoy._ "I see no reason to do so, Doctor. The matter is now moot."

"Uh-huh. Well don't look now, Spock, but apparently his date fizzled out, so you have to tell him something," he says, pointing over Spock's shoulder to where the man himself has just entered the café. Kirk is alone, and not in uniform; obviously, trying tonight to not attract the attention he has been gathering of late due to the media storm and the Starfleet rumor mill. Both of these will be in his favor now that the hearing has concluded, but neither will be any more welcome than before.

Like a homing beacon, however, the captain seems to zero in on the two of them despite not knowing they were previously in the café, for his eyes fall on them within seconds and his face lights up in hopeful question. McCoy gestures easily with his fork to the unused chair at their table – somehow, Fate seems to always guide them toward groupings of three, a fact he tries not to think about too much – and Kirk quickly winds his way through the crowd, ducking his head once or twice to avoid being recognized.

"Spock. Bones." The captain drops into the chair with a sigh of relief, tugging absently at the simple black tunic he is wearing: McCoy recognizes the Starfleet special ops uniform, void of any distinguishing insignia. "How's your evening going, gentlemen?"

"Fine, just fine," McCoy drawls, passing him an open menu-padd, which springs into colorful life at a retinal scan. "I take it yours, not quite so smoothly?"

Kirk's cheeks turn the color of the simulated sun, now setting on the 'Base horizon. "Ariel has a client meeting, we were just going for a walk. Not that kind of walk, Bones," he clarifies, swatting the physician’s arm good-naturedly. "I came back and you two were gone, so I figured I'd come down and have a non-reconstituted meal, then head back to the ship to try and sort out the paperwork from this mess, not to mention the backlog from the ion storm repairs. Lucky I found you. I haven't had a chance to thank you yet, Spock."

Spock looks up almost guiltily from his salad, glance darting briefly toward McCoy. "That is unnecessary, Captain."

"But it is, Spock. I was sunk, and we all know it. If you hadn't had that brainstorm with the chess programming…" Kirk's hands clench around the menu, and the tension lines around his eyes tighten. "I'd be packing my things right now, gentlemen."

"You wouldn't be the only one," McCoy mutters, not at all quietly, and yelps aloud when a heavy boot-toe makes direct contact with his shin under the table. The pointy-eared devil actually, honest-to-god just kicked him!

"Uh…everything all right, gentlemen?"

" _Peachy_ ," the doctor growls, glaring at the impassive figure across the table.

"Perfectly fine, Captain."

"…Oookay?"

They are prevented from further dialogue by their server, who returns to take Kirk's order, professionally unfazed by the late addition of a third to their party. After ordering a sandwich and the suggested locally-sourced fruit juice, the captain sits back in his chair with a poorly-concealed yawn.

"Did you sleep at all last night, Jim?"

"Not really," Kirk admits, rubbing his eyes. He ends up foregoing politeness and rests his chin in one hand, elbow on the table. "I was too busy trying to figure out what to do if they ended up finding me guilty. You, Spock?"

"I was otherwise engaged, sir." An innocent crunch of lettuce.

Kirk smiles briefly. "Of course you were."

"Y'think they really would have forced you to a ground posting?"

"That would have been the best case scenario," Kirk replies darkly.

"Indeed," Spock adds, eyebrow-frowning. "The worst of consequences could have included being completely stripped of rank and dismissed from the service entirely."

"Well aren't you a pointy-eared bundle of joy."

"I state facts, Doctor."

"Mm, I seem to recall you pretty clearly stating _opinions_ , actually," McCoy replies with a touch of evil glee. "Facts were pretty damning, you didn't seem to care too much about them."

Spock's glare nearly peels the polyform finish off their table.

The captain hides his smile behind his hand. "Bones, play nice," he warns.

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you."

"Why, I'm an absolute joy to have around!" he sniffs, with put-upon dramatic flair. "Y'know you two would miss me something awful if they actually _had_ booted you, Jim."

Kirk rolls his eyes, then pauses as the wording registers. _Whoops_. The captain's gaze narrows, and he turns to fix his First with a look that makes Spock shrink back just a fraction in his chair before he can fully abort the motion.

"Spock?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't play innocent with me, what is he talking about?"

"I am certain I have no idea, sir. The doctor is quite prone to the over-dramatic, as you well know."

McCoy snorts. "Please. Check your command outbox, Jim, his resignation letter to Starfleet's still drafted in there, effective immediately if they found you guilty today."

"Doctor!"

"What?"

"Is this true, Spock?"

"Is what, sir."

"You do not do the stupid act very well, Commander. If I open the _Enterprise_ 's outbox am I going to find a drafted resignation form from you?"

Spock shifts slightly in his chair. "The...more preferable scenario would be for you to simply not open the outbox at all, or at least not until much later this evening. Sir."

"Why in the name of all that's sensible would you _do_ something like that!"

"Uh, Jim. How 'bout we wait until we're not in the middle of a public restaurant?"

"Stay out of this, Doctor. Spock?"

Flatware carefully placed on the table, Spock pushes his plate away and faces his angry captain with the bored-looking calm which always so infuriates McCoy when it's directed at him. On Jim, it usually serves to either cool his temper instantly or else push him straight over the edge to crash and burn.

"As I informed Doctor McCoy earlier, Captain: your approval was not a consideration in the decision."

Crash and burn it is. He winces, and tosses back the rest of his glass, signaling for another. Par for the course, after they get the crap scared out of them they go at it like a divorcing couple. There is not enough alcohol, legal or smuggled, in this sector to deal with this.

"The 'Fleet taking down one man's career would have been enough – why would you allow it to take out two of them? The _Enterprise_ would have needed you!"

Spock's eyes flash briefly. "The _Enterprise_ , needs her _captain_. That captain, is James T. Kirk and no other. Removing that variable would change all others in the equation."

Kirk runs a hand through his hair in a clear gesture of helplessness, ignoring the poor server who dodges the gesture to set down his drink and sandwich and then scurries away. "While the sentiment is appreciated, Mr. Spock, that is not a sufficient reason for such a rash decision."

"Sentiment, as you call it, has nothing to do with the decision, Captain. I have no desire to serve in an organization which would condemn an innocent man for an offense he is incapable of committing, supposed photographic evidence or not."

"And if that photographic evidence had been against any other man, Mr. Spock?" McCoy interjects shrewdly. "Would you have still been so certain?"

"Negative." Spock favors him with a look of tolerant disdain, a far more familiar dance now than the weird camaraderie they'd fallen into earlier. "I have found, Doctor, that there are certain incontrovertible truths in the universe. One, is as I testified earlier: the captain is incapable of panicking under crisis. Another, is that after a certain amount of time, I inevitably weary of your company."

Kirk inhales a lungful of fruit juice and begins coughing.

"Same to you, sunshine," he drawls, grinning across the table at Spock's ridiculously smug features. He toasts the Vulcan with his water glass, and gives their choking captain a firm thump on the back. "You gonna live, Jim?"

Kirk nods with a thumbs-up as he roughly clears his throat.

"Good. Now I don't wanna hear another word out of either of you about the ship or anything else for the rest of the meal," he warns, poking at a bizarre pink vegetable he doesn't recognize in his salad. "I get enough shop talk as it is aboard the _Enterprise_ , don't need it down here along with y'all's drama."

His two superiors exchange a look which is one of those creepy conversations-without-words they like to have, but at least they're communicating. Small victories.

"Why, exactly, did you agree to have dinner with him, again?"

Spock gives a longsuffering sigh. "Your species can engender compassion from even the least emotional of beings, Captain, by virtue of their disproportionate need for constant attention."

Kirk nods solemnly. "A most unfortunate shortcoming of the species, Mr. Spock."

"Indeed."

He blinks. "Hey!"

But they are already leaning toward each other, heads bent close and poring over some document on Spock's padd, discussing something in low tones, Spock occasionally sketching figures in the corner of the screen and crossing out others, shaking his head in response to an inquiry here and there. Ship repair status, he'd bet their next shore leave.

Well, he did say he didn't want to _hear_ another word, so technically they're doing what the doctor ordered. He shakes his head with a small smile, and signals their server to bring him another drink; he isn't on duty again until the day after next.

And if they're both so engaged in their discussion they never notice him deleting not just one resignation notice from the draft outbox, but _two_? Well. Neither ever really need to know, do they?


	15. The Immunity Syndrome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I think even the best of Triumvirate fans forgets at times, just how smart McCoy really has to be, to hold the position he does – not just across the board medically, but scientifically. If he were not, I doubt that Spock would actually tolerate his presence, much less welcome it. This episode has always been a favorite of mine because it highlights both of them as equals in the scientific field – both with an equal love of the unknown, both with equal knowledge needed to complete a very science-based mission, and neither perfect but rather relying on experimentation like any scientist would.

Captain James T. Kirk, like most starship captains, sleeps very lightly as a general rule. One must, if one is to be alert at a moment's notice for anything which the depths of space may throw at the ship and its crew. He has rolled out of bed and into uniform in record time for everything from false sensor readings to hull ruptures, and has directed space battles in his 'Fleet-issue robe and slippers on one momentous occasion when overeager Romulans decided they would try to take the _Enterprise_ by storm. This is the primary reason he so despises being kept in Sickbay; every slight noise, every beep and chirp of med-scanners, every sigh of fellow patients, is sufficient to wake him, unless he is being kept unconscious by artificial or chemical means.

All that to say, he has been awakened to and by any manner of things, over his tenure as captain. His entire tenure in space, in fact, as the habit began as a hard-working lieutenant aboard his first deep-space posting. But in all his time on the _Enterprise_ , among all the boring and frightening and everything in-between scenarios which have brought him out of his slumber, he has never awakened to this particular, somewhat disturbing scene.

Given that his last recollection is feeling suddenly cold and dizzy in the turbolift right before it opened on Deck Five, he could very well be hallucinating; but if so, he really doesn't want to dwell on why exactly his brain is conjuring up this bizarre version of Wonderland.

He squints up at the ceiling for a moment, blinking to clear both his vision and his head, because the latter is pounding mercilessly, and then raises a hand to his eyes with a faint groan as the lights in the sleeping alcove rise automatically. It must be well into ship's morning, for them to be triggered into daylight percentages by the motion of his regrettable roll to the side.

"Lights, twenty percent," he mumbles from behind his hand, and they dim obediently. He lies there for a moment, then sighs and struggles to a sitting position, trying not to panic at the idea that he's been out for far longer than he should have been. Who knows what condition the ship is in, much less her crew. It is inexcusable, his crashing before the official reports were made, before the damage had been assessed, before Spock was even back on board…

Speaking of.

He blinks owlishly back at the two pairs of eyes which are currently peering at him over top of what is a truly impressive number of data-padds and scientific apparatus strewn across his desk and at least four cubic meters of the surrounding floor.

"Don't you two have anything better to do than sit there staring like a couple of…gargoyles, or something?" he mutters, slumping back on the pillows and folding his arms, glaring. If they're both in here, then obviously the ship is fine; Spock knows better than to be playing science lab when the captain is out. There would be hell to pay, if the ship needed one of them and they could not be found on the Bridge.

"Mornin' to you too, sunshine. I told you not to take that last stimulant."

"I hate you, so much."

"No you don't." Blue eyes twinkle at him over top of a cup of coffee. "But you probably hate the smell of that Vulcan oatmeal or whatever it is Spock's eatin', don't you?"

So that's what is turning his stomach: that awful Vulcan breakfast cereal, a warm grain mix topped with replicated fruit that smells vaguely like strawberry-flavored wet socks. His stomach lurches again, and he can fairly feel the blood draining from his face.

Spock looks adorably concerned. "I was unaware of nausea being a side effect of that particular stimulant withdrawal, Captain. None of the other crewmen reported such a result."

He waves a hand to stop his First from chucking his breakfast down the recycling chute, managing a genuine smile. "It's fine, Spock. And probably none of the crew went overboard with them. Yes, Doctor, I admit it. Happy?"

"Mmph." McCoy shrugs easily, finishes off his eggs and what looks like a passable replication of grits – Scotty must have finally got the script tweaked to his satisfaction – and shoves the plate out of sight under the desk. A small stack of padds goes skittering after it in a cascade of rattling plasticene. "You just go back to sleep and let me know when you feel like drinking some fluids to flush out the rest of that chemical cocktail in your system, Jim. Now where were we."

"You were postulating the theory that attacking the organism's outer membrane with a synthesized negative anti-toxin, designed to target the enzyme of acetylcholinesterase, might have been a much more sophisticated method than our somewhat crude usage of antimatter to destroy it."

"And?"

"While your theory has merit, the fact remains that the enzyme found in this organism's membrane only _resembles_ acetylcholinesterase; to synthesize such an antitoxin would require much experimentation as well as time needed to break down the enzyme. And time was the one element which we did not have in abundance during this mission."

The captain stares at the two of them as Spock actually drops a padd carelessly on the floor and shuffles through the pile on the desk for another, clicking rapidly through it and then handing it across the desk.

"That would be why my calibrations were off in the first test, as you so eloquently pointed out to the entire bridge crew, Doctor."

McCoy's grin is entirely void of any malice. "That, and the fact that we could really only test based on what we know of single-celled organisms. But just the fact that it has its own central and peripheral nervous system tosses what we know about eukaryotes out the airlock right off the bat, we have to recalibrate everything we think we know and start from scratch under a new sub-categorization."

"I concur, Doctor. Besides that crucial difference, we must also explain the organism's ability to drain energy of all kinds from the environment around it; no known scientific force is able to do so by means either artificial or natural."

"So you're saying it's an energy-parasite-amoeba-thing."

Spock's sigh is audible even in the sleeping alcove. "I said no such thing, Doctor. And the Vulcan Scientific Council will certainly require a more scientifically accurate name than _energy-parasite-amoeba-thing."_

The physician rolls his eyes and hands the data-padd back across the desk, pointing at a line of coding with his stylus. "Y'see this here, though? That's what's throwing me, all this extra genetic coding here. This is all extraneous, according to our current knowledge of eukaryotes and their biological makeup, and I don't know without running sims on it what exactly it's supposed to do for a living organism. It could be the code for how it generates its energy draining field, or…hmm. Wait, you think it could be the coding for how it makes everything run negatively?"

"A biological anti-code?" Spock looks intrigued. "It is possible, Doctor. We would need to run simulations to test that hypothesis."

"I think Jim's computer can handle those, if you splice it into the Medical mainframe."

"Hey!" he finally manages to get a word in edgewise, because this whole thing is just ridiculous. They've trashed his desk – he can't even see the floor for several meters in each direction – and why the devil are they working in here instead of in the labs anyway?

"What, Jim?" Two sets of eyes blink almost weirdly in sync at him and he suspects not really listening to him. Spock is still even working on his padd, typing notes without looking down.

"This is my cabin!"

"And?"

He gestures vaguely at the, well, entire _rest of the ship_.

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Are we to interpret from that informative gesture, Captain, that you would have preferred Doctor McCoy leave you without surveillance last night, given that you were in serious danger of respiratory failure and cardiac irregularity from stimulant abuse and withdrawal?"

Oh.

"After you scared the holy hell out of Lieutenant Danvers when he tried to get into the turbolift only to find you out cold on the floor, I had to make sure you were going to keep breathing all night, _Captain_ ," the doctor adds sourly, fixing him with a glare that makes him slide down slightly in the bed, partially hiding behind the blanket as if that will cover his guilt as well. "So yeah, when Spock asked if I wanted to pass the time going over his findings I jumped at the chance to listen to something other than a _respirator_ for a few hours."

He fidgets with a corner of the blanket.

"Course, he wasn't about to say he was _worried_ , and was gonna stay anyway even if I'd said get lost…"

"A decision I am rapidly beginning to regret, Doctor."

"Not talkin' to you, Mr. Spock. So anyway, Jim, you get no say here. Just go back to sleep like a good little starship captain and when you wake up, you’ll feel a lot better."

He squints at the physician with incredulity. "Does that shtick actually ever work on your patients, Bones?"

McCoy rolls his eyes, stabs a bony finger his direction. "Shut it, you. Sleep. _Now_. Believe me, you do not want to be awake when you really start feeling the worst of the withdrawal symptoms, and the last thing you need is me knocking you out by artificial methods."

The man has a point; the horrible, full-body jittery feeling which has been lurking behind the pounding headache has only grown worse throughout this conversation, and sleep sounds exceptionally good right now.

He manages, barely, to repress a yawn as he slides down a little further in the bed. "Ship's status?"

"Repairs are proceeding ahead of schedule, Captain, according to Mr. Scott's last estimate. Shielded in Engineering as they were, the Engineering staff were the least affected by the negative energy drain, and as such were the first back on duty rotation when recovered and cleared by Medical." Spock's voice is calm, soothing, almost hypnotically so. "Starfleet Command has been apprised of the full situation and is withholding comment on the reports until a final conference with you at your convenience, some undetermined time in the next forty-eight hours. By that time we will be in orbit around Starbase Six, whereupon shore leave has been approved for the crew for a period of at least eight days."

He raises a drowsy eyebrow. "Who did you have to blackmail to swing that? We were only scheduled for five."

"Medical recommendation, Captain." McCoy nodded companionably over the top of the padd he was studying. "The crew deserves it, needs it, and my logs can prove that. If they go against a medical recommendation by the CMO of a starship, it makes 'em look pretty heartless, and it's against regulation unless there's a Class Two or higher emergency in the sector."

He smiles, some of the stress seeping away at the knowledge his crew will be well cared for. He leans back for a moment with a relieved sigh.

"As to the crew themselves, while some are still on light duty and a few remain in Sickbay, the majority of the crew complement have been restored to their full life-signatures, with the aid of Doctor McCoy's staff and the proper rest and nutrition."

"And yes, I know he was closer than any of us to the amoeba-thing, I made him take a shift off too, Jim. That’s why he’s still lurking in here, not on the Bridge," McCoy interjects without looking up, and pokes the Vulcan in the arm with a stylus.

Spock withdraws his arm from the line of fire without a word, and the captain stifles a laugh, watching through increasingly heavy eyelids as his two subordinates pull up a report and exchange a few words about its contents.

"If our first thought is right, and this is genetic coding for what enables the energy drain, you suppose that means in theory that could be added to any genetically engineered organism to create a similar effect?"

"A disquieting thought, Doctor, but one which we must ask ourselves. Lieutenant Thu's'at in my Bio-engineering Lab would be of more specialized assistance in that area than I, as her area of expertise is in the genetic engineering of unicellular organisms, primarily bacteria."

"You're saying if this _is_ an adaptable genetic coding for an energy drain, it could be adapted as a bioweapon."

"It is a possibility, Doctor. Which is why these experiments and the information we derive from them are so vital to our understanding of the organism and the possibilities extrapolations from that data so important to Starfleet Command and the Federation. Much as I am loathe to admit the fact, your expertise and partnership in this process is quite necessary."

"Why, Mr. Spock, I think that's the nicest compliment you've paid me yet."

He smiles into the pillow, because if he is hallucinating, it's good entertainment at least.

"You got that computer spliced into the Medical mainframe yet?"

"Nearly, Doctor. I would have been in five-point-two minutes ago had I been able to work in silence."

A snort. "Don't blame your inability to multi-task on the poor human, Mr. Spock. We're pretty good at doin' two things at once."

"A claim for which I can see no current evidence."

"Uh-huh. Hold this a second." A clatter and a small noise of protest, followed by the hiss of a storage compartment opening.

"Doctor, I hardly think working in this cabin accedes us the right to invade the captain's private –"

"I'm gettin' him a _blanket_ , genius."

"Ah." A brief pause. "Would it not be more efficient to simply utilize the computer to raise the temperature of the room a sufficient number of degrees?"

"Maybe. But it's a human thing, Mr. Spock, you wouldn't understand. Blankets don't just mean warmth, they can also symbolize comfort. That's why we use them in Sickbay, not just a thermal force-field."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"While I do not comprehend the human attachment to a material object, if that attachment is what eases the mind of a human then it would be illogical to discount that fact, Doctor."

"Hmm, we may make a decent human out of you yet, Spock."

"Really, Doctor."

Warmth seeps in around him, banishing the chill which has taken up residence in his bones, no doubt another symptom of the withdrawal. He shifts slightly, curling up tighter under the welcome addition, and sighs softly.

"Yeah, he's out for the count I think," McCoy's voice drifts through what seems like a distant haze.

"Are you quite certain –"

"Yes, quite certain, Mr. Spock. He's gonna feel mighty sick for another twelve hours or so probably, but he's in no danger now. Last time I let him talk me into giving him that much of any stimulant, though, not with a metabolism as fast as his and as exhausted as he already was. I should've taken him off duty right after we hit that dark zone."

"Unfortunately, we did not have that option, Doctor. Had you done so, the _Enterprise_ would have met the same fate as the _Intrepid_."

"Which, we never did tell you, did we Spock? We humans use the phrase, _we're sorry for your loss._ The words don't really sound like much when you think about it logically, but that doesn't mean it's any less sincere."

"Your sentiment is…appreciated, Doctor."

"Well, let's get to work on this so nobody else is ever put in that position, what do you say?"

"I say, Doctor, that I am unaccustomed to pacing myself due to another's abilities, or lack thereof. You will need to keep up."

"Is that a _challenge_ , Mr. Spock?"

"Call it what you like, Doctor."

All he can say is, he'd better still have a cabin and a working computer when he wakes up, he thinks fuzzily as he finally drifts to sleep, secure in the knowledge that once again, all is right with the world.


	16. Space Seed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Upon a rewatch of this episode, my first rewatch in several years actually, I found it very interesting for several reasons – one, noting the 60s-era dichotomy of how unfortunately sexist some scenes are (like the 'waitressing' at the dinner) and how very non-sexist Captain Kirk is, in reprimanding Lt. McGivers as he would any other crewman, and in not repeating Scott's distinction of of the Botany Bay’s male vs. female crew when informing Spock of the same numbers.
> 
> And two, frankly I found the command crew to be a little less than impressive, other than McCoy's spectacular first scene with Khan in Sickbay. The writers could have done better by them than to make them sitting ducks for the entire episode, and for my own sanity I had to address it.

At so late in the ship's evening, 2123 hours to be exact, Officers' Mess is all but deserted, a not unwelcome state of affairs after this most trying of days. The mission has been successfully concluded, the culprits safely housed in the _Enterprise_ 's brig – now full beyond capacity, a somewhat alarming but not insurmountable difficulty provided they keep a close watch upon them and do not allow Khan anywhere near a control panel he might utilize to rewire security systems – and order has been restored aboard. There have been only minor casualties, minimal damage to ship's systems, and the physical conflict had been actually far briefer than expected, and yet…

And yet. Spock finds his mind disquieted, far more than is usual after a mission gone wrong. It is no great feat of logic to discern the reason – it has been many weeks since immediate danger was brought to their doorstep in so brutal a fashion as it was today, and he helpless to stop it – but that knowledge does nothing to calm his mental turmoil. And so, the deserted state of Officers' Mess is a welcome refuge, rather than the site of uncomfortable isolation it might be for another, for a human.

Of course, as fate would have it, his refuge is interrupted in short order by the most volatile human of his acquaintance. He is to have no peace tonight, apparently.

"Y'mind?" the physician asks unnecessarily, dropping into the seat across from him without waiting for an answer. A dinner-tray follows shortly with a small clatter of flatware and plate.

Spock sighs silently, and resigns himself to a mealtime spent fielding borderline xenophobic insults and jabs at his character which under normal circumstances he would tolerate, might even enjoy returning: but tonight, he simply does not possess the energy, nor the mental control.

"I'd'a thought you'd be holed up somewhere with Jim, going over the hearing for tomorrow," McCoy ventures conversationally, after a moment of awkward silence.

Spock pushes a dubiously-replicated pasta piece to one side of the plate; obviously the matter replication script has a flaw in one of the sub-routines, as this piece has the disturbing consistency and color of wet clay. "There is little to discuss, Doctor. And the captain is occupied in what I believe he calls a 'shipwalk.'"

McCoy snorts into his glass of iced tea. "Oxygen deprivation's killed off a few of those brain cells. He's gonna wear himself out doing that after a day like today."

"While I would normally agree, Doctor, the captain had a point. Khan's communications with the Bridge were done over a shipwide communications channel, and the entire crew were able to hear him cutting off life support to the Bridge before taking command of the _Enterprise_. The crew does need to be reassured of ship's status, and none does that better than Captain Kirk."

Chewing slowly on a mouthful of soggy green beans, the doctor nods. "Fair enough," he agrees with surprising lack of distemper, only a sort of resigned weariness. "Can't say as I wouldn't be glad to see him alive and well myself, even if I know he's fine."

Spock pauses, mentally frowning. Could the captain truly have not physically checked in with his senior staff prior to beginning his shipwalk? Such an oversight is unlike the man, unlike the commander he is. Either Jim was simply too weary to summon the energy for fending off McCoy's medical concern, or else he had something to hide – such as the fact that he was really in no physical and/or mental condition to be walking the entirety of a constitution-class starship after nearly being killed today by a power-hungry dictator from Terra's history. The images still have not faded from his mind, and not because he is still in the process of writing up the reports from the day's events.

Something about this man, this Khan, inexplicably haunts him with an almost foreboding chill. As if they have made the wrong choice in allowing the man to live, when he so cheerfully would have seen first Kirk and then the remainder of the crew dead without another thought if they refused to bow to his will. Seldom over his Starfleet career, has Spock been unable to shake the chilling sensation of _darkness_ which will not quite be banished from his mind, even amid the companionship of his human shipmates and the familiar solitude of this brightly-lit room. It is not a logical feeling, but it nonetheless exists. He does not voice this, however, as there is little point in vocalizing the matter, and he has no wish to incur the curiosity of this particular insatiable human.

"Anyway." The doctor covers a yawn, grimacing slightly, and sets the fork down to rest his chin in his hand. "'S'pose I shouldn't be keeping you any longer, I got reports to finish tonight anyway and I have to go through and log the final scans from the _Botany Bay_ 's life support pods…"

Spock is no longer listening, for he has finally realized what has been twinging his subconscious ever since the man sat down; he has not once, seen the doctor raise or use his right hand. Even now, the human set his fork down and used the same left hand as a chinrest – and McCoy is predominantly right-handed, so this is highly unusual, for him to be so utilizing only his left.

"Doctor McCoy," he begins, leaning forward to better examine the human's expression.

"Mm?" Blue eyes blink tiredly at him over top of the half-eaten meal. "What is it, Mr. Spock?"

"Have you injured your right arm in some way, Doctor?"

The doctor's eyes widen suddenly, as if caught in a searchlight. "Uh. Not exactly?"

"Your response does not inspire confidence in your medical diagnoses."

Another undignified snort, this time of amusement. "I mean it's fine, Spock. You need to calm down."

"I assure you, Doctor, I am in no way mentally distraught. I am merely voicing an inquiry."

"Mmhm."

He refrains from sighing once more, though it would be gratifying against this particularly frustrating human.

"Doctor, if you are injured perhaps you should –"

The physician makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat, and gesticulates wildly with his cutlery in an aggrieved gesture which nearly takes out his own left eyeball. "Oh, for the love of – Commander, you're worse than Nurse Chapel. It's _taken care of_."

His eyebrows clench. "When did this happen, Doctor?" For it could only have been today, and judging from the man's evasive behavior, it likely was during the mission and was well-hidden from his superiors.

The fork drops back to the tray with a clatter, and the human rubs his eyes tiredly. It does not escape his notice that the doctor's hand is shaking slightly; an indication of exhaustion rather than stress, as he knows the Chief Medical Officer is steadier, calmer under pressure than any other crewman aboard, the captain included. It is those reactionary times between crises in which the explosive nature of the man comes to a head, usually directed at Spock himself or some crewman foolish enough to draw the wrath of their fiery ship's surgeon.

"Spock, Khan wasn't an idiot, he knew exactly where the chain of command was on this ship – where d'you think he sent a dozen of those goons of his when they beamed aboard?"

The room seems to grow suddenly colder, as he realizes that it had likely never even occurred to the captain, and certainly had never occurred to him, that Khan had memorized the ship's specifications in detail (a fact which had been obvious when the senior staff was later assembled _en masse_ in the captain's preferred briefing room) and that they had left Sickbay completely unprotected through this entire mission. Had Khan been more ruthless, less respecting of the healing arts, much more harm might have occurred.

"Now, super-men or not, they're still just human, and they have the same anatomical structure as any other human," McCoy is still rambling, left hand waving in the air to illustrate his point with vague gestures, "and, let's just say, one of 'em didn't appreciate my boot bein' introduced to the most sensitive portion of that anatomy when he got handsy with one of my nurses."

Spock's lips twitch despite the gravity of the situation. "I have noticed that antagonizing a superior species is a particularly honed skill of yours, Doctor."

"Khan thought it was hilarious," the human replies with a tired grin. "Ordered the poor fool to report to Engineering until he could speak in his normal register again, and told me I would make a 'worthy addition to his crew'."

"Indeed?"

"'Course he wasn't impressed enough to let somebody set this shoulder before dragging us down to that briefing room, but then he was a little occupied in cutting off the air flow to the Bridge." McCoy's eyes darken. "Y'all are lucky he actually did read the specs correctly, any longer without life support and you could all have permanent brain damage. Scotty and I couldn't do a blessed thing to stop it."

Spock ignores the latter statement, for what is done is done; instead, he returns to the former. "Are you implying, Doctor, that you sat through that entire meeting in the briefing room with an untreated injury?"

The doctor rolls his eyes. "I do know what anesthezine gas sounds like being released into the atmosphere, Spock. Under normal circumstances I'd have been out that door right behind Scotty, my reflexes were just…slow." Spock has no idea why the human looks slightly embarrassed. "Really not a good excuse for an officer, I know. I'm sorry."

"Doctor, you will cease to apologize for being injured, or for not performing under combat circumstances for which you were not trained. Nor will you singlehandedly accept responsibility for the lack of competence which the command staff showed in permitting this entire incident to occur. From start to finish, we displayed a remarkable lack of ingenuity and foresight in this matter, a fact which I intend to see never transpires again."

"I'll wholeheartedly second that," the doctor fervently agrees, toasting him with his tea-glass.

"You diverted my inquiry quite successfully, Doctor, but only temporarily. Your injury?"

The human swallows the remainder of his drink with a rueful smile. "It's been seen to, Mr. Spock. Wasn't dislocated, just got twisted pretty bad when that lieutenant of his wrenched my arm up behind my back." The human's eyebrows bounce toward his hairline as he sits back in his chair. "Huh. What'd that poor spork ever do to you?"

Spock drops the now-twisted flatware back onto his plate and ignores both the words and the fact that he just accidentally destroyed Starfleet property. "I have mentioned to the captain more than once the need for a lockdown around defenseless areas such as Sickbay, to be implemented during instances such as this one; perhaps this mission will reinforce that suggestion to Starfleet Command as a suggestion for our refit next year."

"That's a really good idea, actually, Spock. Even if it only buys us a few minutes during a crisis, it could save a lot of lives. If I’d had patients in there at the time, I would have had no way to keep them safe from those crew of his."

"I shall forward you my report accordingly for your additional comments, then, before attaching it to the captain's final logs regarding this mission."

"That'd be much appreciated. Speak of the devil," and the human nods toward the Mess doors, which had opened to admit the man in question.

The captain looks utterly exhausted, completely drained of that almost magnetic energy which usually seems to empower everything around him, but he at least seems at ease after having spent four hours assuring his crew that all is well following this harrowing mission. He perks up slightly at the sight of his two XOs at the table nearby and soon collapses into the chair beside his First with a theatrical groan, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"Y'know, we have a shipwide comm-channel for a reason," McCoy says dryly.

Hazel eyes squint at him, a clear indication of an approaching headache, before the man drops his head onto his folded arms in exasperation. "Your observation is _noted_ , Doctor."

"Don't you sass me, Jim. Spock, go get him some nutrition cubes or something before he falls asleep on you."

"Bones, I swear…Spock, that's not necessary, I –"

"It is no trouble, Captain. I assure you, I have had quite enough of the doctor's company. The diversion is most welcome."

He strides away in the direction of the meal selectors, leaving behind the sound of indignant spluttering and a surprised giggle muffled into gold sleeves.


	17. Day of the Dove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Day of the Dove. Warning for discussion of subjects such as racism, which that episode tackled with a painful lack of finesse that would not fly on television today.

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott is not having the best of days.

As if being diverted dozens of lightyears off-course in the opposite direction of the nearest civilized port isn't bad enough, the alien entity they just chased off the ship had the gall to pull them along at warp speeds so high that nary a ship in the 'Fleet should be able to withstand them for as long as their precious lady had – and as a result, their dilithium crystals are now nearly drained. The ship herself is fairly vibrating apart where she drifts, and the entire crew is now learning with dismay that it will be at least a month before they can put in at a Starbase and at least ten days before they can dump their Klingon guests off onto the nearest passing 'Fleet-issue transport ship.

The captain had not been a happy man to be told that bit of lovely news, but what he expected Scott to do about it was any man's guess; there were only so many rabbits to be coaxed out of that particular hat, and the poor silver lady had given them all she had, for the present.

Scott had been up the better part of the night and then a full double shift this day as well, attempting to coax more power into their stuttering engines, re-routing all non-essential systems in a complicated series of relays which would give Mr. Spock fits if he found out how many regulations the array was bending at the current moment, and as a result has been a bit out of the loop regarding ship's business today, though as a general rule he does not much have time to fraternize with the crew, being buried constantly in the heart and soul of the ship, her beautiful engineering section.

Besides this, he has no desire at the moment really to face anyone on the alpha shift crew, having given all of them a particularly spectacular show on the Bridge just forty-eight hours ago, under the influence of an alien life-form or not. Not his finest hour, in fact he cannot recall a worse one in his last decade of service, and he is just very lucky neither the Captain nor the Commander have yet decided to place him on report for his actions or his language.

The memory does nothing to make his appetite return at all, and so he pushes away his partially-eaten meal with a sigh, retrieving a technical journal on his padd to read while beta shift changes. Officers' Mess begins to clear out, and the corridors will soon become less congested, so he can make it back to Engineering without having to stop and make small talk with his people on their way to or from shift.

He is deeply engrossed in specs for a new crystal rotation device prototype currently being beta-tested on a constitution-class starship in the Laurentian system, when a figure pauses beside his table, and his skin begins to crawl uncomfortably.

Best to get it over with, then. He sighs silently and looks up, to see the First Officer standing beside his table, dinner tray in hand and a data-padd tucked under the opposite arm. While in the old days, under Pike's captaincy, Spock usually ate alone and with methodical rapidity, he's mellowed under the influence of a very unique brand of command; and nowadays, it's unusual for Spock to be eating alone. He and Captain Kirk are practically attached at the hip, especially on weeks where they are working the same shifts like this one, and so the fact that he's eating alone is a bit odd.

Perhaps Scott is not the only one finding this last mission just a bit awkward to get around.

"Will my company disturb your reading, Mr. Scott?" Spock inquires politely, and Scott wants to cringe at the perfect formality in the question and tell the blasted Vulcan that yes, he will definitely disturb him and can't he go anywhere else for the love of heaven because he is quite ashamed of himself as it is without the reminder staring him in the face for the next thirty minutes, thank you very much.

He of course does neither, only gestures to the seat across from him. "'Tis a free mess hall, Mr. Spock. Though I canna imagine why you'd want to sit with one of us when there's more than enough seats available."

He realizes his mistake at the same time that he realizes something else – that that is actually human _hurt_ , which is expertly masked by professionalism a fraction of a second too late. He opens his mouth to clarify his poor choice of words, but is beaten to it by a nod and murmured word of assent as Spock turns toward an empty table a few meters away, close to a group of Medical technicians.

Montgomery Scott is many things, but he is not a coward. And he is not in the habit of burning a bridge while a man is still standing on it.

"Wait - Mr. Spock!" His voice is unmistakable, because it has been known to travel halfway across an entire Engineering section when Communications is down, and he's aware that the remaining officers in the mess are staring as he fair knocks over his chair to intercept the retreating figure of their First Officer. Spock halts, blinking impassively at him as he hesitantly, and briefly, puts a hand on the Vulcan's arm. "Sir, I dinna mean that how it sounded," he says quietly, but simply, without extraneous verbage he knows Spock would find annoying. "I only meant, that I could not see why in the great galaxy ye'd want to spend any time with the likes of me, after what happened today."

Spock's eyebrows incline just a fraction. "Your logic is predicated upon an obviously incorrect supposition."

He squints at the man in frustration. "Is that your way of sayin' you'll come back and sit down at least before discussin' the whole kit and caboodle?"

A sigh. "I will sit down, Mr. Scott. Please desist from making a further scene in front of the crew."

"Ehh, they've seen worse." Scott shoots a well-aimed glare at the nearest table of Comms operatives, who hastily return to their dinners, not wanting to incur the wrath of either their head engineer or his favorite partner in crime, their direct Communications chief. The rest of the mess soon follows suit, losing interest in the drama between their superiors in short order, and the hubbub of a small dinner crowd soon resumes.

Spock seats himself in silence, beginning to calmly dissect whatever the bizarre tuberlike vegetable is that he's replicated from the meal selector. Scott makes a mental note to ask him once the tension dissipates a bit what it is, because if it's some Vulcan vegetable then fine, but if it's not, then he'd bet his last credit it's not supposed to look like that, and something's a bit wonky with the replication script. It'd be just like the man to suffer in silence rather than add to someone else's workload.

"So," he finally asks, just to break the brittle silence, "you and the captain all right, sir?"

Spock's eyebrow bounces up to his hairline.

"Just that ye're usually with him of an evening, that's all," he hastily backtracks, "and Lord knows the Klingons have been thorns in all our sides, that's for sure."

"The captain is, I believe, indulging in alcoholic beverages with Doctor McCoy this evening, as they are neither on duty tomorrow," Spock answers dryly. "I was informed they were not to be disturbed for anything less than a Priority One Red Alert, because they were both, directly quoted, 'tired of cleaning up crew drama from this emotion-sucking alien thing.'"

Scott only partially succeeds in muffling his laughter. "Aye, that sounds like Doctor McCoy."

"On the contrary, that was Captain Kirk. The doctor's words were much more colorful."

He hides a smile. "’Tis a shame to be havin’ a drinking party and not invite the rest of us, though."

Spock finishes off his vegetable and retrieves his data-padd, looking boredly over it as it powers on. "I do not comprehend the human tendency to delay facing one's responsibilities by overindulgence in various substances, alcoholic beverages included."

"Well, Mr. Spock…" He trails off, awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. "Sometimes, we do it just to forget, you know."

"To forget." A raised eyebrow. "Illogical, as no memory erasure actually occurs."

"Aye, but it helps to not think of it for a while. Believe me, we all have things we'd like to just push away for a bit." He looks down at the table, trying to not remember the words spoken under alien influence the day before. "We dinna want to forget completely, y'see – because that means we could do the same thing again, foolish humans that we are. But it helps to just, not think about it for a while."

He glances back up, to see the Vulcan regarding him curiously. "Sir?"

"Mr. Scott, you appear to be speaking from personal experience." The words are not the snide comment they might be from another; merely a gentle inquiry.

He cannot help but snort at the naivete – or maybe just scientific curiosity, you never quite know with this one. "Aye, y’might even say very recent personal experience, Mr. Spock. I am not too proud to admit to behaving like an underdeveloped, xenophobic jackass."

Spock looks vaguely amused. "Engineer, I believe you take far too much responsibility upon yourself for the provocation caused by the alien entity which overtook the crew during the last forty-eight hours," is the calm response, and he can't help but admit it helps just a bit, to know their logical First doesn't blame him overmuch for his part in the drama. "We were all, in some varying degree, a victim of circumstance. I assure you, my reaction to the idea of causing you physical harm is likely much the same as your own."

The frankness is somewhat surprising, because never in the pre-Kirk era would their resident Vulcan have ever admitted to such a human emotion, but it's a bit nice to hear. He smiles, for the first time in what feels like days. "Ah, I wouldn’ve blamed y'for wiping the deck with me, sir, for the record," he informs his companion, finishing off his water. Ugh, now there was room for improvement in the replication script for sure; it tasted horribly of silicon. Ghastly stuff, he must get Turner on that first thing tomorrow.

"That outcome would not have been optimal for anyone concerned."

"But justified." He shakes his head. "I still canna believe such things came out of my own head, Mr. Spock. It's a disgrace, truly."

Spock leans forward slightly. "Mr. Scott, as I said, you do yourself an injustice by taking far too much responsibility for your actions; the entity proved its method of choice was in creating and generating _fictitious_ scenarios, not in bringing to light pre-existing ones."

He blinks, because this hadn't occurred to him. They've encountered mind-controlling or inhibition-stripping influences before in their travels, and usually it entails just finding what lurks in the darkest corners of the brain and bringing it out, usually at the worst possible times. (The _Enterprise_ seems to be attempting to write an entirely new sub-chapter to Murphy's Law where this is concerned.) But if what Spock says is true…

"Doctor McCoy made that analysis, did he?" he asks cautiously.

"He did, after extensive psychological scans upon first himself and then other affected crewmembers. And besides this, Engineer." Spock looks pointedly across the table. "We have served aboard this ship for over a decade, albeit in slightly different positions over the years. Should you harbor such prejudices toward my person, I suspect I would have noticed before now. You are not known among your peers for your subtlety."

He isn't sure whether to be relieved or offended, and settles for somewhere in the indignant middle. "Here now, sir!"

"Was my analysis incorrect in some way, Mr. Scott?"

He scowls, folds his arms across his tunic. "No…"

"Then perhaps you should desist in this pointless exercise of self-flagellation."

"If that's Vulcan-speak for apology accepted, I'll take it." He grins at the raised eyebrow but lack of denial he receives, and chalks it up a win. "I just count m'self lucky Captain Kirk stepped in when he did, eh?"

"Indeed." Spock's eyes soften, obviously without his realizing he's (horror of horrors) expressing human feeling. It's a wee bit adorable, actually, though he's certainly too smart to point it out.

"Amazing, really, how the man can dig through something like that and pull us out the other side?"

Spock's head inclines in agreement. "The captain's ability to detach himself from such influences in order to maintain command of this ship is yet another indication that he by far is the best, and only, choice for captain of the _Enterprise_. I mean this in the most complimentary way possible, Engineer, that the ability seems to be almost inhuman – and that has been to all our benefit."

"I'll drink to that, sir." He raises his glass in a salute, despite the fact that the gesture would be a sight better with whatever Doctor McCoy's got stashed in his cabin right now. "To diversity, Mr. Spock."

He receives a gracious nod of agreement, and is about to ask what Spock is studying on his padd when suddenly the lights flicker alarmingly, and a sickening lurch of almost out-of-body _wrongness_ throws them both into a braced position against the table, stomachs churning at the sensations of interphase shifting.

Spock meets his look with one of equal alarm, because that was the inertial dampeners, and if they go out they could lose artificial gravity and the warp drive, not to mention other vital ship systems.

"Ohhhh, not good." He scrambles out of his chair, seeing that his primary Engineering team has already beat it out of Mess, leaving their trays on the tables, and that the two Medical personnel left in the room are helping a fairly green-looking ensign from Hydroponics back to unsteady feet. "I'm bettin' we just lost two of the dilithium crystals completely – feels like a total power drain on something vital down there."

The lighting panel on the wall begins to flash amber, signifying the Bridge has gone to yellow alert. Spock looks resignedly at the panel for a moment and then silently puts his tray in the recycling chute.

Then the lights go out for a full three seconds, and he feels the flooring under his feet grow dangerously light – the gravity is flickering, he can tell the difference immediately. The engines still feel right to him, but he's not going to bet his next shore leave that they'll last much longer if left unattended, straining under drained half-crystal power.

Of course, it's then that the comms panel erupts in a burst of static next to their heads.

_"Kirk to Engineering – Scotty, what the devil are you doing to my ship?"_

"I shall leave you to answer that inquiry while I return to the Bridge to ensure we remain at only yellow alert, Mr. Scott," Spock says, and he'd swear that was a hint of panic in the poor First Officer's expression before he beat it out of the room fast as ever he could go.

He chuckles and hits the button to shut the comm down to a single channel, not the shipwide, because obviously the captain is getting a mite careless due to the influence. The lights flicker again, before returning to a much dimmer power level than they should be, and he hustles down the corridor to the turbolift. It's time to work some more magic.


	18. Whom Gods Destroy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Whom Gods Destroy, and foreshadowing for Requiem for Methusaleh.

The minor crisis cared for, he returns to his seat after but a few moments, intent upon offering the usual token apologies humans tend to expect for interruptions to their personal routines. The words pause unspoken, however, when it becomes apparent that it is likely this particular human did not even regard his departure as noteworthy, in fact only seems to notice he has moved when he re-seats himself at the table.

Kirk blinks as if startled from a trance, and straightens almost guiltily in his chair. Shoving a bishop into position without even glancing at the landing space, he makes a laughably obvious attempt at casuality. "Everything all right?"

"Quite so, sir. The Blue Alert was merely a precaution due to a dropped container of highly flammable substances which were in transit from Science Lab Eleven."

A sandy eyebrow rises in mild interest, but not alarm; obviously the captain is taking his cues from Spock's own lack of concern. "I take it there is no immediate danger to any persons involved?"

"Only to Lieutenant Bridger, who has already been warned twice regarding his unfortunate habit of, I believe you humans call it, _tripping over his own feet_?"

A brief, almost weary smile; no laughter. "Are we looking at a transfer?"

"Negative. Merely a safety refresher. I have already cared for the matter with Lieutenant Masters." He glances over the board, and raises an eyebrow at the position of the black bishop; but he is wise enough to not comment, merely moves a cautious pawn from the third level to widen the field for a Coridian frontal assault.

Kirk's eyes roam the board briefly, a finger tapping almost absently on the table. Finally he reaches up and moves his queen to Level Two.

"Interesting," Spock murmurs, studying the board.

"Mm?" Kirk scrubs a hand over his face, and appears to shake himself into alertness. "Surprising you today, am I, Mr. Spock?"

"That is one way of stating it, Captain."

He is favored with what appears to be a genuine grin, but all the light behind it is absent, faded – like a fast-eclipsing sun, leaving a sense of time slowly running out. He moves his own queen to counter, and Kirk follows up with the remaining black bishop to the same level.

This is…alarming.

He glances up from the board, and after a moment the captain senses the scrutiny and straightens, head tilted in question.

"Something on your mind, Spock?"

"I believe that is a question better asked of you, Captain."

"Other than trying to pull a stalemate out of this mess, Spock, no – nothing, really." The rueful chuckle is not exactly forced, but it is weary. "Why do you ask?"

Spock shifts in his chair, grateful now for the barrier of game and board between them.

Kirk's eyes sharpen, sparking in warning – the man has a sixth sense for when he is being cornered, and obviously he senses a trap now.

"If you've something to say, Mr. Spock, then say it."

"I have nothing to say, sir."

Kirk's eyes narrow. "Then why are you looking at me like I'm one of your experiments, Commander?"

"Perhaps because you are playing this game with all the strategic ability of a first-trimester cadet, when we both know you have a Level Three grandmaster rating. Sir."

To his surprise, Kirk seems to be completely taken aback by this instead of immediately denying it; he looks totally confused, and glances down at the board in consternation.

That, is far more concerning than it would be were he purposely losing the game due to distraction or some other reason.

"I…" A strange expression flickers across the human's face, as he picks up the black king and peers at it almost absently. Then it is gone as quickly as it had appeared, and the calm façade is back in place once more; the change is almost laughable, as if Spock will be taken in by it at this point, after so long in the man's company. "I am apparently too distracted to be taking on Vulcan strategy tonight, Commander. Perhaps a rain check is in order."

The words are calm, friendly, almost lilting in their familiar charm – and falling totally on deaf ears, tonight. Spock is not a fool, and with this particular human, one must utilize as much strategy in person as in the game itself. Jim's favored weapon of choice, in battle and in chess, is strategic misdirection; but he forgets, at times, that Spock too is a grandmaster, with strategies of his own.

"While I am amenable to postponing the game, Captain, I believe being given the truth for that deferral is not too much to ask. Or would you prefer I make the inquiry of Doctor McCoy?"

The color drains slowly from the human's face, to the point of being slightly alarming, given the events of the day. In all honesty, Spock had put the lack of concentration down to mere exhaustion, but Kirk had shown up at his door muttering about a wish for company tonight, and he was not about to turn the man away.

Now, Kirk's hand clenches almost protectively around the black king, and he clears his throat. "I don't believe this falls within your purview as First Officer, Mr. Spock," he says, and the tone is deadly as the piece retreats from play.

"I am aware of that."

"You're on very thin ice, Mister."

"I am also aware of that." He folds his hands on the table and raises a patient eyebrow. "However, the fact remains, that you are quite aware something is not right. And from your reaction, I can only assume you have concealed this fact from Medical?"

To his surprise, Kirk sighs, drops the chess piece back onto the board, where it rocks precariously for a moment. "No, Mr. Spock, I did not conceal this or any other fact," he says wearily. "It's standard regulation and I _am_ an officer, thank you."

Alarm is no doubt an emotional reaction but the cause is sufficient; for if there is a regulation forbidding the concealing of the injury or assault, then it is more serious than he had thought.

"Captain, what occurred during the hours you spent in Captain Garth's company after I was removed from the dining hall on Elba II?"

A sour look, untempered by the usual fondness which he has grown accustomed to seeing. "I taught him to play _fizzbin_."

He sighs silently, tamping down on the all-too-human urge to strangle this frustrating human, a sensation which seems to be incredibly strong on these instances when the man is far too dismissive of his own safety.

"You are no longer in the company of the criminally insane, Captain; your bravado is not needed here."

The gentle reproof brings a slight look of remorse to the man's face. "Quite right, Mr. Spock. I am sorry."

"Apologies are unnecessary where no offense is taken. I merely wish an answer to the question."

"And you do love to ask the hard ones, don't you, Spock." Kirk shoves his chair back from the table with his boot-tips, then slumps in it, hands scrubbing wearily down his face. "It wasn't even that eventful, it's just…messing with my head a little. Between that and the phaser stuns my brain is a little scrambled. I'm having a hard time concentrating. That is all."

"And what, precisely, does 'that' refer to, Captain?"

"The…rehabilitation chair, I think he called it."

"Which we viewed in use before beaming back to the _Enterprise_."

Kirk's rueful laugh is bitter, almost brittle. "We viewed it in its intended use, Spock. Garth had…made some adjustments to it, when he…well. Let’s say, gave me a personal demonstration of its capabilities."

He can almost feel the creeping horror that swamps him at the conclusions which are too easy to draw. The damage that could have been caused, to a human mind unprotected as a Vulcan's is by mental shields? It is not the first time this particular human has been subjected to an assault of this nature in their exploits, and it never fails to fill him with an innate horror.

Kirk must see something in his expression, because he smiles for the first time and reaches across the table briefly. "It's not as bad as it sounds, Spock. Bones said everything checks out normal, I just have a massive headache. And, apparently, it is throwing off my concentration in chess tactics."

"While I do not doubt the doctor's medical expertise, he is by no means an expert in that field, Captain."

A head-tilt of curiosity. "We've had run-ins with torture devices before, Spock. And conditioning against such things is a part of command training, even for medical personnel. I daresay he's enough of an expert that we can trust his opinion."

"Captain. You are the only human I have ever encountered to last longer than twelve moves against myself in this game. If such a device had, as you say, left no lasting effects upon your mind, you would not now be making strategic errors so obvious a child could circumvent them."

Kirk's eyes narrow in annoyance, coupled with what looks like unease. "I said, I have a headache, Mr. Spock."

"And I have personally been witness to your directing a six-hour standoff with a Klingon warship while quite capably hiding the fact that you are suffering from an untreated shrapnel wound, Captain. Your excuses are not sufficient."

Chess pieces rattle precariously as the board is shoved to one side; a pawn goes rolling to the ground unheeded. A glare is leveled across the table, cold enough to flash-freeze plasma. "Are you seriously going to do this now?"

"Yes," he replies dryly.

For a moment the stalemate continues, for he can be as stubborn as any human when the cause is sufficient – and his skills in that area have become well-honed over the years with this one – but soon he sees the fire flicker out, dying like a candle-glow in a vacuum. Kirk leans sideways in his chair. One elbow on the table, forehead in his hand, he shakes his head.

"How did you know?" The words fall softly with a sigh.

Spock gently replaces the fallen pawn into its proper place beside the white king, and without explanation begins to reset the board. "You are aware that over time, a certain, you might call it, sense of presence can develop between two individuals of a telepathic species."

A muffled snort, and Kirk sits back in his chair, a smile quirking the corner of his lips. "And if one is not of a telepathic species, that sense of presence is quite unfairly one-sided. Isn't it, Mr. Spock."

Spock continues to replace the playing pieces into their original starting positions. A faint sigh draws his attention back across the table, and he finds the human shaking his head.

"I was hoping you hadn't actually seen it."

"I did not. In the specific sense you refer to, at least."

"But you could tell he was doing something?"

"I could tell you were in pain, Jim." The black king and queen are replaced on the top level. "I am aware that while this ability is common in Vulcan society, it could be considered invasive, by human standards."

Kirk shakes his head in obvious contradiction, takes the rooks from him and drops them on their starting squares. "I just…never mind. Forget it."

"An order I will take the liberty of disregarding."

A startled laugh, genuine this time.

"However, if the matter is of concern to you –"

"Spock. I said it's fine." Kirk drops the last pawn into place and fidgets with it. "I just wish it went both ways, is all."

"Ah." He contemplates the board and debates an opening move which will force a new strategy out of the man, something completely out of the ordinary. "I take it you had occasion to wish for the same ability during our mission."

Kirk snorts, and moves a pawn to mirror his opening gambit. A cautious beginning, but not indicative of any particular mental state. "You could say that. Garth was the greatest strategist of his time, Spock, and he was insane on top of it all. I'd no way of knowing there for a moment…"

Spock shifts his King's knight to the second level. "You believed him to have eliminated what he no doubt saw as the greater physical threat, just after revealing himself to us?"

Kirk shoves a bishop into play with a gesture of defiant recklessness. "You are quite correct, of course, Mr. Spock. I don't know why I bother trying to outsmart a Vulcan," he says ruefully.

"It is not, perhaps, your most sound strategy, sir."

"Mm, no. Perhaps not." A faint smile over the board. "Just the same, I'm rather glad he was too mad to realize his mistake in letting you live."

Spock shrugs easily, as he moves his queen into play. "Madness takes many forms, Captain."

"Vulcan philosophy?"

"Negative. Merely scientific observation."

"I won't argue with that." A rapid exchange of pieces rids the board of a bishop each and a few odd pawns. "Am I improving?"

Spock takes the black queen's rook with a raised eyebrow, and refrains from visible signs of amusement when the action is met with a muttered string of expressive colloquial Klingon.

"I believe such an action is anatomically impossible, sir."

A broken laugh filters between the tiers of the board, and the black king edges backward out of danger.

"Seriously, though, Spock."

"Yes, sir?"

"You really think something might be…damaged, that didn't show up on Bones's scans?"

The words are carefully void of any betraying concern or emotion, but he of all beings can discern the unease behind them, the vulnerability that would never be spoken of outside this room.

"I think it unlikely, but there always exists the possibility," he hedges. "The unknown factor, is what I find cause for concern, Captain. The mind is a fragile entity, and not one to be treated lightly."

"I don't feel any different. But if I…you say I'm making stupid mistakes, and if I do that in something more serious than a chess game…"

"Stupid is a drastic overstatement, Captain. Another would never have noticed the alteration in your strategic or playing habits; they are yet considerably above average for a human."

"Just the same, if there is a possibility that I could have been compromised?" Kirk worries absently at a discarded pawn before moving a knight on an intercept course toward the white queen; the first really offensive move the captain has made the entire game, and that not a very strong one. "I don't even know how long I was unconscious."

"One hour, seven minutes and sixteen seconds."

The man blinks. "If you could tell that, can't you tell if I'm compromised or not?"

"Not without directly joining with your mind to ascertain any damage. Such a thing is best left to mental healers; I have not the training nor skill set to perform such a _kash-naf hakausu_." (1)

"And _I_ have not the trust or inclination to let anyone else rummage around up there, Commander, so if you think there's a possibility of my being compromised then I’d appreciate keeping this between us." Kirk's eyes are flashing fire, conviction about his Starfleet oath combined with worry regarding the safety of the endeavor. "Is this something you are willing to consider?"

He hesitates only briefly; he has done far worse, for far less important beings, in the intervening years. "If you believe it necessary, Captain."

"Is it dangerous?"

"For us both, equally, if I am unskilled enough to complete the process."

"I'm willing to take that risk, but I don't want you doing it if it will permanently endanger your telepathic abilities, Spock."

"The danger is less that of telepathic damage, and more that of physical and mental pain, Captain. I have no wish to inflict greater harm than you have already been subjected to."

Kirk's eyes soften. "Somehow I doubt that's going to happen, Spock."

"It may, however; I am not trained in such matters. You must be prepared."

"I am. Or, I can be. What do you need me to do?"

This human, this impossibly trusting human, will be the death of him someday, he has no doubt. Any other would likely shy away, frightened, from the intrusion, especially after the events of today; but this man faces the challenge head-on, and it is that very determination which makes the mind-link so absurdly easy to form, to what feels like both their surprise.

He will never grow accustomed to the study in melodic disharmony which is this human's mind, on the few occasions he has had to glimpse within it – colorful and chaotic and intensely powerful and strangely, almost severely controlled in the areas pertaining to his duty. It is of little wonder Kirk can pass a psychological examination where a lesser man would fail, that he can perform the job he does without breaking under the strain; this also explains, in part, why Spock is and has from the beginning, been inexplicably drawn to him.

Jim faces his demons in much the same manner as he plays chess; either by dancing around them as if they were not there at all, or by crashing and burning and taking everything he can with him when he does – and both, with all the subtlety of a type two phaser array. The process is a fascinating study in organized chaos, and it is this process which draws his attention across a vast expanse of colorful, dizzying thoughts and feelings.

It takes very little effort to reach the source of the darkness he can sense lurking deeper within, for seldom has he felt so welcome as he does in this particular human's thoughts – a consideration for another, less vulnerable time – and within moments he has discovered the origin of the sinister tendrils which have just barely begun to twine throughout a portion of Kirk's mind.

The reaction is almost instinctive, almost simple in its solution.

They are memories, specifically sensory memories – phantom sensations of agonizing pain which are overriding the normal neural impulses; a form of conditioning that is completely beyond a human's control. The brain is refusing to carry out certain commands, believing those commands will produce excruciating pain should the actions be followed through. He can quickly see that these sensory memories are tied quite strongly to the very game in question: no doubt, because the countersign Jim had been tortured for had been the primary reason for that very pain.

The relief he feels upon learning this is almost palpable – enough so that he can sense Kirk's wary confusion echoing across the mental expanse – and the solution, quite simple. This much, every Vulcan is capable of doing, if the mental connection is strong enough between two individuals. This much, he can ease; the sinister strands of pain association he can snap as if they were mere physical threads, sending them receding into the more distant recesses of Memory.

Less than fifteen seconds later, he is surfacing from the mind-link with only minimal disorientation – again, a strange consideration for another time – and is looking hesitantly across the short distance which separates them.

Kirk blinks for a moment in silence, frowns, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Captain, are you well?"

One eye peeks at him in amusement from around the hand. "You've just been rearranging my brain, Spock, I believe you can drop the title."

"There was no 'rearranging' done," he protests, a strongly reflexive urge to defend the action. "Merely –"

"Spock. I haven't the faintest idea, what that was. But…" The man shakes his head, a look of almost awe crossing his face. "…whatever it was, it was a gift. And I thank you."

"It is merely a technique used to remove the sensations associated with certain memories, to lessen the emotions attached to those memories. The Vulcan Way is to completely detach, categorize and then release those sensations; however, a human has no training in this mental discipline."

"So you, what, removed the pain association? Which is why I can still remember the event, but not what it felt like?" (2)

"Correct."

"Amazing." Kirk's eyes are far away as he goes back to the game, moving a knight almost absently. "And…a little frightening, to know you have that power, my friend."

"It is never to be used for harm, sir."

"Of course not. But it is frightening, all the same. To know you have that ability to cut off all emotion completely, on yourself or someone else? Well. Humans fear that which we don't fully comprehend, Mr. Spock."

"A natural reaction."

"Our pain makes us who we are, as humans – but there have been times where that would have been a gift," the man adds softly, as if to himself. Spock shifts the white king's rook to level two as he continues. "A very dangerous one, but a gift nonetheless."

"There may yet be such times, Captain."

"I don't think I would be able to remain impartial and make that call, Spock."

"Then do not." He lifts an eyebrow as Kirk glances up from studying the board. "As you said earlier, sir: you have faith in Doctor McCoy and his medical staff to be the experts in such matters of the mind as well as the body. Much against my own judgment, I will follow your direction should you defer to his in these matters."

Kirk stifles a laugh, and moves his queen to level three. "I believe you have a deal, Commander. I trust you both to rein each other in where I'm concerned, at least."

"A wise decision. Check. And mate in six, sir."

Kirk removes the check by taking Spock's queen.

He stares at the board for a moment in consternation, wondering how he had not seen that knight lurking on the lowest level for the entirety of the game, obviously waiting for that precise move.

The captain's eyes are wide with innocence. "You were saying, Mr. Spock?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Literally, a healing mind-fusion  
> (2) This is my personal opinion, for what I believe happened in the closing scene for Requiem for Methusaleh. I seriously doubt Spock would have removed the memories of Rayna entirely from Kirk's mind; not only is that a serious privacy invasion, but it's also just really stupid, given that he can't mind-wipe McCoy and change the mission logs and everything else that would need to happen to keep Kirk from finding out. It's literally not a logical solution, in my opinion. I think he probably made Kirk forget how painful her death was; for example, making the loss feel several years ago instead of quite recent.


	19. Catspaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Despite the laughable nature of this Halloweentastic episode, this has always been one of my favorites – but for this one disturbing element which of course goes totally unaddressed by the writers or subsequent episodes, and which seems to be a frighteningly recurring theme in the OS. Interestingly enough, while this episode airs in Season Two, according to its Stardate it's one of the earliest ones in the five-year mission, coming only days after Menagerie. The whole crew, including Spock and McCoy, would have still been learning about each other then.

While the event is not uncommon now that he has somehow unwittingly acquired a human shadow in the form of a curiously irrepressible starship captain, Spock is still somewhat surprised to hear his door-chime in a request for entrance at this late hour of ship's evening. For many years, over a decade in fact, he has grown accustomed to his self-professed solitude; and only in recent months, some little time after the initial whirlwind experience of Captain Kirk's command turnover, has that solitude slowly begun to change.

It is still a relative novelty, however, to be so disturbed of an evening. And despite a return to normality aboard, his relationship with the captain is still, understandably but undeniably, strained, after recent events; and so it is with no little wariness that he answers the door's summons on this peaceful ship's night. Jim is a man of lightning-fast decisions; quick to act, quick to react: and thankfully, quick to forgive, once the rationale for actions has been shown to him. He is strangely logical in that respect, almost Vulcan in his diplomatic ability to understand motive before action – and yet, it is but human nature to recoil at betrayal.

Once he identifies his visitor, however, he finds he would much prefer a visit from the captain, however strained the conversation might be. He has not sufficiently meditated this week to prepare for an evening engaged in this entirely different type of confrontational discourse.

However, it will not do to have junior officers see their superiors engaged in a one-sided shouting match in the corridor, which is the most probable outcome to ensue should he ignore the door-chime whilst obviously inside his quarters.

After stumbling slightly as the door slides closed behind him, the human in question glares sourly around the room as if the surroundings themselves rather than his innate physiology are responsible for his discomfort. Spock sighs silently, moving to the wall controls to lower the temperature by five degrees. A not unreasonable compromise, and he is after all a diplomat by heredity.

"Thanks," McCoy says gruffly, and after shuffling for a moment in curiosity to test the higher gravity, finally takes the seat Spock somewhat reluctantly points him to on the opposite side of the desk. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"I am finishing the day's reports for the captain's final signature, nothing more pressing, Doctor. Is there a matter in Medical which requires my attention?"

"Nothing official."

"Then…?" He attempts to restrain his impatience, which this particular human seems capable of drawing out of him with the rapidity of a depressurizing airlock. Said impatience wanes slightly, however, when he sees the physician shift uncomfortably in his seat, an expression of genuine unease crossing his weary features. "What is it, Doctor?"

"Believe me when I say I'm well aware of how strange it sounds, Commander, but I need your opinion. On a medical matter." The answer is strangely reluctant, almost hesitant; and not from the human's usual belligerence, if his expression is any indication.

Spock's eyebrows travel upward slightly. "I find that exceedingly hard to believe, Doctor. While your bedside manner leaves much to be desired and your practices occasionally speak of a lack of progressive technique in favor of more archaic methods, your specialities in at least two doctorate fields by far exceed any medical knowledge I might have, scientific background or not."

The physician snorts, but seems to relax slightly at the familiar repartee. "I'll take that as the compliment it is, coming from you," he retorts with a crooked grin, though the expression soon fades to a more serious one. "But I'm not joking around here, Mr. Spock. This is one field I am no expert in, and I need this conversation to stay off the record. For now, at least."

That is an irregular request, to say the least. And given that he has promised complete transparency to the captain in all matters, recent events considered, diplomacy will be needed here.

"Then I am at your disposal, Doctor, though I fail to see how I can be of assistance to you. Please specify."

"It's…it has to do with this mission we just completed."

"Ah." He sets down the padd he had been working on, and gives the human his complete attention now. He had been, for lack of a more Vulcan expression in favor of the Standard one, _afraid of this_. His suspicions may have been correct. "I take it that your questions have to do with the…mind-controlling incidents on Pyris VII."

He does not miss the slight shudder which goes through the physician at his delicate phraseology. "That's one way of putting it, yes. As the closest thing we have to a telepathic species aboard, you're the only immediate resource I have right now for this kind of immediate research, Mr. Spock. I need both a medical opinion and an expert who can keep that opinion out of the captain's sight if this conversation has to go on official record, given that I could have a potential conflict of interest."

"I see."

McCoy waves a hand vaguely in the air with an expression of exasperation that is by now extremely familiar. "Starfleet Medical's always been inconsistent where training's concerned in regards to telepathic trauma and assault counseling. It's a disgrace, plain and simple. But those are the facts."

Now this, is considerably more alarming, because he had not thought the incidents to be that serious, given what he had deduced from the beings on the planet and their methodology; perhaps the incidents had done more damage, been more invasive, than he had presumed based upon his observances. Very much concerned now, he gives the physician his full attention and requests particulars.

"Hm. Well. The most unusual thing, Commander, is that I just completed the last set of brainwave scans on all three of us – Sulu, Scotty, and myself – and I did every test I could think of on all three of us, a full psychological workup. And in all three cases, none of us had any change in our brainwave signatures or delta wave patterns."

"None, Doctor?"

"Not a one. Even a neural imprint scan didn't show any change. That's a red flag for any neurosurgeon, Spock, because any type of telepathic contact should have left _some_ kind of indicator, however minor. To have no trace whatsoever? That's just…disturbing, to me. Something doesn't add up."

Slightly relieved, Spock feels his tension ease just a fraction at the physician's words, for instead of disproving they actually confirm what he had presumed regarding the events; but this brings up a most alarming fact, one which is inexcusable in a superior officer: that he, as McCoy pointed out, the closest to a full telepath aboard, should have been more attentive to this incident than he had. It is his responsibility to this crew, not McCoy's, in this instance, and he has failed in that regard. The doctor should never have been forced to take this step in seeking out answers, because Spock should have ensured he fully understood all ramifications for the events on the planet below, rather than simply assuming human resiliency had succeeded in minimizing the incidents.

That is inexcusable in both a command officer and a Vulcan, to so discard the potential suffering of another being, and he will not make the mistake again. Captain Kirk has made it clear that he intends Spock to prove himself capable of commanding his human crew, and that includes commanding the respect of the senior staff, especially after his well-intentioned and indeed necessary act of mutiny scant weeks ago.

The doctor's eyes seem slightly haunted as he continues, unaware of this dawning realization in his superior officer. "I can't remember a thing, myself, and neither can they if they're telling me the truth; and that scares me. It's not natural. Any type of memory loss should show up on a brainwave scan. If it isn't? It could mean some sort of telepathic brain damage that I can't detect for some reason."

"I believe I can be of assistance in that respect, Doctor, if you will allow me to put your mind at ease," he interrupts with as much finesse as he can, and sees the man's eyes flick upward in surprise at the rapidity and openness of his answer. "To be perfectly honest, I had not realized that the incident was…troubling you, in such a manner; I did not see it as such an intrusion, and for that I owe you an apology."

The human's eyes look about to pop out of his head. "I dunno if I've ever heard you apologize to anybody, Commander." McCoy's eyes narrow at him with what is probably well-founded wariness. "And I have no idea if it's an _intrusion_ , as you're calling it, or not – that's what I'm asking. We know very little about telepathic species, even after all this time, because they're not forthcoming with information. But the fact that I can't find any _indication_ of telepathic contact is what's bothering _me_ , because it's indicative of…well, if it were a physical assault I would certainly call it a lack of consent with a chemical or artificial component, since there's no memory of anything happening. Only problem is, in this case there's no medical way to prove something happened, short of your and Jim's eyewitness accounts."

Again, Spock feels that twinge of instinctive horror at the idea. Perhaps his, among other species, have done themselves no favors in mystifying other races regarding their telepathic abilities. It is not a skill to be inherently feared, except in circumstances such as the doctor is describing – the forcible assault against another's mind, without their consent and with the full intent to cause harm.

"I do not believe that to be the case in this instance, Doctor, though I will readily agree that such things have happened in history and, as you describe, are indeed an assault as criminal as a physical one. I assure you such a crime is a most grievous offense in any telepathic culture; even punishable by death, in many such."

A spark of interest flickers in the man's eyes. "In yours, Mr. Spock?"

He raises an eyebrow of mild agreement. "In mine, among others, Doctor, such a forced mental assault in the past carried such a penalty. It is an offense of the highest magnitude, and no telepath in his correct mind would ever contemplate such a crime against another telepathic individual, much less against one of a psi-null species."

"And that applies to this situation…how?" Blue eyes narrow shrewdly at him. "I don't like blurred lines, Mr. Spock."

"Nor do I, Doctor, which is why I appreciate your thoroughness in your medical examinations. The answer to your primary question lies there; were any type of actual mental contact made between the individuals on Pyris VII and the members of the _Enterprise_ crew, such an aberration would have shown on your brainwave scanners; the difference would have been unmistakable, and there is no method of deceiving such a brain scan. The obvious conclusion, then, would be that there was no actual mental contact made between you, Lieutenant-Commander Scott or Lieutenant Sulu and the life-forms on the planet."

McCoy looks equal parts relieved and puzzled. "Not that I'm not glad to hear that, but I still don't understand, Spock."

"Doctor, from my brief contact with the beings and from what I observed of their behavior, I understood their ability to be more that of a higher life form, able to transmutate and manipulate matter and energy, rather than that of a race of actually telepathic individuals."

"The difference being…"

"The ability to manipulate energy would enable the user to block neural inputs to certain parts of the brain, and to redirect certain neural impulses at their sources. The effects would be similar to some neural drugs or local anesthetics, in your medical parlance: in essence, the ability to produce a tranquilizing or hypnotizing effect without the aid of pharmaceuticals. But the blocking of neural inputs does not constitute actual mind-touch, or telepathy in its technical sense, as both are done at a subconscious or neural level rather than in the actual consciousness. On telepathic and empathic worlds, such a procedure is often used in the medicinal field in lieu of chemical treatments, and is not considered technically any more mentally invasive than your hypospray cartridge's contents are on your world, Doctor."

"So you're saying, instead of us being mind-controlled, we were more just, what…hypnotized or drugged without the drug itself? That's a little sketchy, if you ask me."

"While I understand your medical skepticism, Doctor, that is in essence the impression I gathered from the female known as Sylvia, and from my observations of the crewmen affected. I did not gather the impression that she was powerful enough to instigate an actual act of controlling another's willpower; rather, she could only view another's thoughts and attempt to block incoming information to them. This would explain why the projections around us were solid; there would be no need for such things if she were able to actually alter our thoughts to see that which was not in existence."

"Hmm."

"This would also explain the lack of altered brainwave patterns and the fact that you remember nothing of that time; your minds were not altered, merely…taken offline, to use a more familiar metaphor. Emptied, if you will, of all thought but those she allowed through the neural block."

"Hmph. I suppose it makes sense, but that's still a starshipload of things I Do Not Like, Mr. Spock." McCoy scowls, arms folded across his chest. "And y'know what else, I don't see the difference really in what you're saying is a crime and not a crime in your precious telepathic culture. I don't care if it was telepathy, hypnotism, voodoo spells or just a fancy magic trick, none of us gave consent to it!"

Spock pauses, considering this; again, he has forgotten that to a non-telepath, the difference might not be so obvious.

"I had not considered the ramifications to a human, Doctor. To a telepathic individual, the difference is instinctual, taught from the onset of one's telepathic abilities; but to one not accustomed to such things, it no doubt is not as obvious. You have my assurance that this oversight on my part, in not educating you and your medical staff accordingly, will not be repeated on another such mission."

The doctor regards him for a moment, unblinking, and for just a fraction of a second he wonders if this is the human feeling called unease. Then the tension seems to resolve itself, and McCoy sighs, shaking his head.

"As good as I'm gonna get, I suppose. I still don't like it."

"I am now aware of this fact, and acknowledge the reasoning behind it. I would be willing to discuss further the lack of sufficient medical knowledge in the _Enterprise_ 's databases on the matter, if it would help to alleviate your concerns about future treatments."

McCoy eyes him speculatively for a moment, then stands, shaking his head. "I think we can cross that bridge when we come to it again. I'm trusting you when you say it isn't something we should be overly concerned with, Mr. Spock."

"I do not believe so, at this time."

A quick tug to his tunic, and the physician turns to leave. "Good. Then I'm not going to even say anything to Sulu or Scotty about it, unless you think I should. They weren't anywhere near as concerned with it as I was. No point in stirring up a new hornet's nest."

"Your hesitation is natural, Doctor, and your desire to protect your patients most admirable. Also, such a self-preservational instinct will serve you well should we encounter other telepaths in our travels during the remainder of our five-year mission. That probability lies at an eighty-seven-point-six percent."

"Good to know," the doctor says dryly over his shoulder.

"The probability that they will be hostile, however, is a mere forty-seven-point-three percent."

"Even better." Nearly to the door, the human stops, swiveling sharply on one heel. Spock finds himself pinned by a sharp blue gaze. "And the probability of you pulling another stunt like that with Jim again for the rest of this mission?"

He does not waste either of their time asking what _that_ is. "Zero, Doctor."

" _Good_. Remember I know your medical file by heart. Every. Single. Detail." The door opens silently behind him. "Goodnight, Commander."

He raises an eyebrow. "Goodnight, Doctor."

The dramatic exit is followed by a loud thud and colorful metaphor he can clearly hear through the now-closed door; obviously the change in gravity to ship's normal is an unexpected surprise.

He shakes his head in bemusement.

Thank Surak he will never have to share a mindscape with this human.


	20. Obsession

It has been cathartic, in a way, and while he does not intend to allow it regularly for fear of the appearance of favoritism, he thinks it might have done the young ensign some good as well. Garrovick is a good officer, and with a little more training could become an exceptional one. Certainly, the ensign's survival alone on two such dangerous planetside missions speaks well to his abilities, and while his behavior may have been rash, as captain, Kirk has to give the young man points for at least attempting to perform his duty as a Security officer on Tychos IV. It is not the average of the boys in red who would so foolishly risk his posting in raising his hand to a superior officer, good intentions or otherwise. The man needs to learn more stealth, and a few more lessons in specialized combat would not be amiss; but audacity he certainly does have, and that in spades.

"Remind you of someone, does he Jim?" McCoy had drawled innocently, after having had enough of his complaining a few hours ago, all while booting him out of Sickbay with a mild headache reliever and positively evil laugh.

Remind him, the young man does; and interestingly enough, not just in the area of audacious rule-bending. Garrovick also seems to be a budding tactical genius, something Kirk notes for later discussion with the department heads. He is not a man to waste his people's potential, one reason this ship still flies at the peak efficiency he demands even after the things she's seen.

And it is not an average crewman who can beat him at chess, which is why he rarely plays against anyone but his First Officer.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you let me win, sir," the young man says frankly, eyeing the board with a narrowed gaze. "I've seen you and the Commander play. Stole a few of your moves myself, truth be told, in the last tournament below decks."

"I told you, you would get no special treatment on this ship, Mr. Garrovick, and that would certainly mean off-duty as well," he replies, somewhat ruefully. He can handle a blow to his pride when needed; but just the same, he's quite humanly glad there are few people in this lesser-used Rec Room tonight to witness his inglorious defeat. "I wish I could say my mind was not on the game, but unfortunately it very much was."

His crewman chuckles briefly, fidgeting with a captured rook.

"Your skills are considerably under-used in Standard Security if you are able to strategize like this, Ensign. Make sure you are working with Giotto to develop yourself if you intend to stay with us for the entire five-year mission. There are ongoing projects in the Tactical and Ops departments which might be better fitted for your skill set, if you are interested."

"Aye, sir." The young man sets the rook back on the table. "I'll give it some thought, Captain. And I've no intention of going anywhere for the rest of the mission, unless I'm transferred."

"Well, Ensign, if I wouldn't do it for your… _exploits_ , today, then I daresay you'll be safe for the remainder."

Garrovick has the grace to look chastened, but entirely unrepentant. "It's the job of Security to make such decisions in the moment, Captain. I'll accept whatever reprimand you put in my file for it, but I won't apologize."

"Good. If you did, then I would tell Giotto to transfer you."

A startled flicker sparks in the young man's eyes, fading after a moment. Before he can respond, the rec room doors open.

"Good evening, Commander."

Spock nods in greeting to the ensign, though his attention is turned elsewhere. "I apologize for the intrusion, Captain; however, you requested an immediate status update from Medical once Doctor McCoy had verified the incoming inventory for Theta VII has not been unduly affected by our delay. It has not. However, the detailed report does not require your immediate review."

"It's fine, Mr. Spock."

"And I don't think _this_ requires any further immediate review," Garrovick says lightheartedly, glancing between them. His head tilts in question. "Unless you wanted a redemption match, sir?"

He laughs, jerking a thumb toward the door. "Get out of here, Ensign."

"Yes, sir." Garrovick scoots his chair back with a nod. "Good night, sir. Commander."

Spock inclines his head in acknowledgment, watching as the young man weaves his way through the room back towards the doors. He then turns back, and raises an eloquent eyebrow at the nearly-empty board.

Kirk sighs, the façade vanishing like a wraith in smoke. In the absence of any other crewman, he does not pretend that this day has been anything resembling one of his best. "Don't even start, mister."

"I said nothing."

"You said _everything_. Will you...?" It's a more hesitant question than he wants it to sound, almost strained. He nods at the empty seat, and is more relieved than he wants to admit when his XO takes it with no hesitation.

"You're surprised," he says, half-smiling as dark eyes flick over the board.

"Not precisely."

"Well, thank you for that." The laugh isn't forced, this time; Vulcan reality checks may be harsh at times but something he's come to rely on as an almost comforting, steadying force.

Spock's eyebrows are the closest he'll ever get to a sigh of exasperation. "Ensign Garrovick scored higher in the Tactical portion of his Starfleet Academy exams than did 94.8% of the other applicants for this voyage."

"Not too shabby."

"Indeed."

"I think he has a lot of potential."

"Agreed."

"I just…" He toys with the black king for a moment, thinking. "What kind of a captain am I, Spock, that it takes a day like today for me to notice?"

"Sir?"

"I should know my people better than that."

"Jim, you are only one man."

"And not a very good one, if today was any indication."

"I believe there are many aboard this vessel who would disagree with that assessment."

He half-smiles, but can't really even feel anything more than mortification that of all people, a _Vulcan_ is having to pull out all diplomatic stops to smooth over the ugly truth.

"I note you didn't say there are a majority who feel so, Mr. Spock."

A minute inhale, the only expression of exasperation his XO will ever show in a public space, and he is the recipient of a very pointed eyebrow. "I was unaware such specificity was required, sir. I had thought your…uncertainty, regarding your command, to have been resolved earlier today in your quarters."

"You can say _paranoia_ , Spock. Or haven't you been sent the same medical report from our beloved Chief Medical Officer?" he asks dryly.

"Doctor McCoy's concerns were, and are, not ill-founded. Your assumption that his performance of his medical duties stems from anything but concern for your well-being, however, _is_."

"Not pulling any punches tonight, are we." The black king settles back onto the table with a small clink, shivers for a moment on its base.

His First reaches out to steady it, the raised eyebrow – and the symbolism – all too clear in the silence.

"Can I ask you something, Spock, off the record?"

"Of course."

"And an honest answer, mind."

"Really, sir."

"Without the sir, preferably."

"You have my word, Jim."

He absently pokes the black king, scooting it off-center just enough to bother both of them before moving it back to the precise center of the square. "Out of pure curiosity. What exactly _would_ it take for you to relieve me of duty? Because if you wouldn't today…"

Spock is silent for a moment, but only that. "You are making this inquiry off the record?" he ventures at last, a pointed question in the words.

It's a distinction, but an important one. "Well, I suppose on the record as well."

"You may rest assured that I have no compunction whatsoever with removing you from command should you ever prove either incapable of assuming command, or capable of endangering this ship and her crew. My loyalty to the _Enterprise_ and indeed to you, dictates that my actions be such."

"I would expect nothing less."

Just the same, it's reassuring to hear. People wonder, he knows, how they function together so well as a command team, human and Vulcan. But that cold, hard logic is so reassuring a constant in the uncertainty of the void, a compass point which does not shift so much as a degree as a human's moral compass might. His own star to steer by, as the old poem says, and one he has come to rely upon perhaps more than he should, at times.

And days like today? When he toes the line far too closely, perhaps is given too much leniency from his senior command staff? It is on days like this, that he needs the reassurance it is his perception that has changed, not Vulcan judgment.

"But off the record, Jim…" Dark eyes glance up from the Tri-D board, simple sincerity in them. "There is very little which I believe would be sufficient cause for such drastic action."

One thing he's learned: when in communication with a Vulcan, what is unsaid is far more important than what is.

He takes neither lightly.

"Careful, Mr. Spock. One could make the argument that such sentiment is quite illogical," he replies, hiding his amusement behind the board as he begins a cautious opening gambit, the board reset in a few brief seconds between them.

"One could." Spock counters the move in his usual fashion, deliberately and immediately, yet without any seeming haste. A practiced grandmaster's motion, graceful and elegant.

He raises a skeptical eyebrow as he moves his queen to the lower tier.

"One could, if one wished to rapidly lose the second game of the evening in fewer than fifteen moves. _Sir_."

"That's more like it. Fifteen, hm?"

"I do not believe I suffered a speech impediment."

"Every time you spend more than two hours in Medical, you come back with this attitude, Mister." He drops a bishop smack in the middle of the white playing field and grins. "Perhaps if I win, I should make you do it more often. What do you have to say about that?"

A white knight plucks his bishop out of thin air. "Check. Mate in seven."


	21. Devil in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've always had a fondness for this episode, as it was the first TOS episode I ever watched in its entirety, almost fifteen years ago now; and it was the perfect one to pull me in from TNG and show me that despite the lesser CGI and effects, the characters themselves had a lot more promise.

"That was a job well done, gentlemen." The captain steps off the transporter pad with a smile, clapping his Chief Engineer on the shoulder as he moves to the wall control panel. "Mr. Sulu, prepare the ship to break orbit and inform Janus VI we will be departing within the hour."

_"Aye, sir."_

Scott merely favors them all with a tolerant smile and disappears down the corridor with his bits and bobs of machinery, followed closely by the transporter tech. The young man is eagerly questioning his superior about the recent jury-rigging technique even as their voices disappear around the corner in the direction of the nearest turbolift.

"Don't make me have to come drag you both down to Sickbay for post-mission checkups, Captain," McCoy warns as he moves to follow their example. "Standard procedure after an away mission, and that’s without a cave-in on the surface," he adds with a sigh, when both men look like they're about to object. "Did you really think your Vulcan wasn't gonna tattle on you, Jim?"

The captain turns an accusatory eye toward his First, who merely blinks placidly back at him.

"And it's now an outstanding medical order that you have a neural scan every time you finish a mission involving telepathic contact, Mr. Spock."

"I do not recall any such regulation on the books, Doctor." Spock's voice is icier than the mountain cliffs of Epsilon VI.

McCoy gives him an almost feral grin. "That's because the captain made it one after that business with VanGelder. So take it up with him, but I better see you both in Sickbay before we break orbit or I'm coming up to the Bridge to drag you down. _Sirs_."

"You're dismissed, Doctor," Kirk says dryly, as he powers down the transporter, which the tech had forgotten to do in his excitement. He makes a mental note to send a memo to Scotty, asking him to address the issue with the new lieutenant, and waves a hand absently as McCoy's boot-heel clears the sliding doors.

"Mr. Spock, remain behind for a moment, please," he then continues, in the same even tone. His fingers fiddle aimlessly with the levers of the transporter control board.

Spock halts in the act of leaving the room, turns around. A slightly puzzled look is the only response he gives for a moment, before he draws nearer to the console.

"Captain?"

Kirk's fingers drum restlessly on the control board. "Mr. Spock, one of the reasons the _Enterprise_ 's missions have such a high success rating in the fleet is due to the cohesiveness of its command chain."

Spock's eyes sharpen in immediate understanding, as Kirk knew they would. "You are referring to my…altering your orders regarding the fate of the Horta."

"That is one way of putting it, yes," Kirk snorts, slightly amused. "Altering, countermanding, whatever word you want to put on it. You showed a division in the command chain in front of subordinates."

"I did, sir." Tension is building in his First's posture, he can actually see it starting to petrify that Vulcan façade into impenetrable stone. Nevertheless, he continues, frowning down at the console before him.

"And that is something I will not stand for on this ship. You are already aware of this, Commander."

"Yes, sir."

"You can drop the _sirs_ , Spock, for pity's sake. I'm not going to bust you back to Ensign for calling me out on a bad decision." He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand to stave off the approaching headache. "In fact, I need you to do that; you're the only one who will dare to, probably. I need someone who will call me out on decisions that are ill-considered, or rooted in emotion. You are the one I rely on to do that."

"Your issue is with the timing, rather than the execution, of that action," Spock supplies, readily enough.

"Yes, Mr. Spock. I want the command chain of this ship to always be united, at least to outward appearances. It is a show of strength that the crew, especially humans, need to see. And if you intend to command humans, Spock, you're going to need to learn that about them."

"Duly noted, Captain."

"We cannot let our personal feelings – poor choice of words, Mr. Spock, my apologies – our personal _inclinations_ , then, influence our command decisions."

Spock looks slightly indecisive, which causes him to tilt his head in question. "Well, out with it, Commander."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Did I _not_ just say –"

"I would respectfully submit to you that you should heed your own advice, sir.”

His face heats despite his attempts to stop the display of emotion in front of this much more controlled being. "Specify, Mr. Spock."

Spock's eyebrow rises. "Captain, one of your strengths as a leader is the fact that you are intimately acquainted with your subordinates' particular strengths and weaknesses; you were so informed even prior to your assuming command of the _Enterprise_. Therefore, you and I are both aware of your real reason for attempting to remove myself from the search for the Horta; it was not due to any lack of technical expertise on my part but rather to the imminent threat the creature posed."

He clears his throat awkwardly in the silence that follows.

"Well. You are, as always, a master tactician, Mr. Spock."

Spock's other eyebrow inclines to join the first.

"However," and he grins, leaning both elbows on the console across from his First, "I will concede the field to an equal strategist."

"I believe we may call it a stalemate, sir. But on the condition that it will not happen again."

"I will promise the same, and expect you hold me to it, Mr. Spock."

The door slides open across the room. "Lord Almighty, how long does it take the two of you to have it out, anyway?" McCoy's irritated voice clearly heralds his re-entrance to the room. "Sickbay. _Now_."

Kirk sends his First a longsuffering look. "Do you suppose we could lose him at the turbolift?"

"That would at least, as you say, be showing a united front, sir. I am at your command."


End file.
